


In the In-Between

by chchchchcherrybomb, vinegar-and-glitter (vinegarandglitter)



Series: In the In-Between [1]
Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: 27 club, A busker who may or not be a timeless being, Anxiety Disorder, Constantly Dying is a Real Mood, Estrangement, Gay Sex, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Manholes, Mental Health Issues, Murder stairs, Recreational Drug Use, References to Depression, Russian Doll AU, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, We lied no Rock and Roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-10-30 00:45:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 59,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17818616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chchchchcherrybomb/pseuds/chchchchcherrybomb, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinegarandglitter/pseuds/vinegar-and-glitter
Summary: Connor's turning 27. Evan's sitting the bar exam.Over and over again.A Dear Evan Hansen Russian Doll AU.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Navigating a friendship when you live halfway across the world can be tough, but being able to sit down and watch a TV series together is a heck of a lot of fun. So we made a date to watch Russian Doll and we fell in love. 
> 
> Then we told ourselves we wouldn't write a DEH Russian Doll AU for a full week. 
> 
> And then we wrote it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the 27 Club!

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door.

 

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

 

It’s the same as it was yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.

 

His reflection hasn’t magically changed just because he’s turned twenty-seven.

 

It’s all still there. Same mismatched eyes, same nose, same ears. Maybe a little sharper in the chin, maybe a little hollower in the cheeks, but still…

 

The same.

 

It’s always the fucking same.

 

He washes his hands, slowly and deliberately, because fuck hurrying for some drunken asshole who wants to piss. He doesn’t know even half the people at this party, and he doesn’t like even half of the people he does know.

 

Andi’s done something weird to the bathroom wall again. Perils of living with an artist, Connor supposes. He’s heard plenty of her rants about it over the years.

 

_Art is meant to be tangibly experienced! The whole world is a canvas! I am a richly creative being and I cannot be chained down!_

 

Andi pays two-thirds of the rent on this dump so as far as Connor’s concerned, she can do whatever the fuck she wants with the place. He just wishes sometimes that there weren’t quite so many vulvas involved.

 

Vulvas are not so his area.

 

He opens the bathroom door and a girl with pink hair brushes past him, slamming the door behind her almost before he’s even out of the room.

 

Whatever.

 

He walks through the crowd of people, as people whose names he can’t remember wish him a happy birthday, and heads toward the kitchen. Connor can see Andi at the kitchen island, kneading bread, which would be weird in the middle of a party if it were literally anybody else.

 

Her eyes light up as she sees him.

 

“Welcome to the 27 Club!”

 

Connor rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the reminder of my own mortality.”

 

Andi laughs. “We all gotta go sometime.” She pulls a joint out of her bra and hands it to him with a flourish. “Happy birthday.”

 

Connor inspects it. It’s kind of sweaty and smells a little bit like patchouli. “What’s in it?”

 

“Laced with cocaine,” she informs him, grinning wolfishly. “Thought you could use something nice for the big day.”

 

“Thanks.” Connor reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. He’s about to light the joint when Andi’s eyes widen and she swats the lighter out of his hand. “Hey, what the fuck?”

 

“I’m not letting you use a white lighter on your twenty-seventh birthday, Jesus fucking Christ, Connor!”

 

Connor rolls his eyes. Of fucking course. Andi hasn’t shut up about the fucking 27 club and all its related superstitions for the past month. “Well then, give me another lighter.”

 

Andi rolls her eyes straight back at Connor, puts the lighter down on the counter then goes looking through one of the drawers, muttering to herself.

 

Before she turns around again, Connor takes the lighter and puts back in his pocket.

 

Fuck superstition.

 

He likes this lighter.

 

“Aha!” Andi presents him a box of matches. Connor takes it from her, pulls out a match and strikes it against the side of the box.

 

It takes more than a few tries to catch. The box is kind of damp.

 

Once he finally gets the match sorted, he lights the joint and takes a long inhale.

 

He immediately feels slightly better about this party.

 

The thing is, he doesn’t want or need a fucking birthday party. He’s not six. But Andi’s never been one to pass up an opportunity to celebrate.

 

Connor’s pretty sure this party is more about her than it is about him. Especially if the guest list is anything to go by.

 

He takes another hit and looks around the room with a critical eye, trying to pick out people he actually knows. He can see some of his work colleagues, some of his acquaintances from college, and…

 

“What the fuck?”

 

Andi must have followed Connor’s gaze. “Oh good, she made it.”

 

“You invited her, what the fuck?”

 

“Maybe it’s finally time,” Andi replies, her tone way too delighted for Connor to fully process right now. “Maybe tonight’s the night I finally bang your sister.”

 

“Gross,” says Connor, shaking his head and hoping it’ll shake out the discomfort he’s feeling at the sight of his sister, in his dining room talking to some guy who’s talking animatedly with his hands that Connor vaguely recognizes from the bookstore.

 

“Hey, Blossom wants what she wants,” says Andi, who is now very obviously looking Zoe up and down.

 

Connor lets out a disgusted noise and promptly heads out of the kitchen and down the hallway. As he makes a beeline toward his room, there are two thoughts battling for dominance in his brain.

 

The first is that there better not be anyone fucking in his room.

 

The second is that it is so not fair that the universe has cursed him with the knowledge that his roommate calls her vagina Blossom.

 

The door to his room is open, which is probably a good sign, and he can see Margot and Eddie sitting cross-legged on his bed. Margot is crushing up pills on what looks like a photo frame.

 

As he gets closer, Connor realizes that it’s his framed bachelor’s degree.

 

It’s probably as good a use as any, to be fair.

 

He sits next to Eddie, who’s rolling up a dollar bill and grins at him widely. “Happy birthday, man.”

 

“Thanks,” Connor replies. He stubs out his joint on the frame, puts it behind his ear for safekeeping. Before too long he, Margot and Eddie are all pleasantly buzzed from whatever it is they just snorted off Connor’s degree.

 

It’s only once the frame is clean that Margot seems to realize exactly what it is. Her face breaks into a smile and she picks it up and holds it toward Connor with a slightly mocking smile.

 

“Well, lookie here at Mr. Fancy Pants and his fancy diploma,” she drawls.

 

“Higher education is a sham,” says Eddie with a roll of their eyes. “You’re thousands of dollars in debt, and for what? A piece of paper you can put in a frame?”

 

“And a frame to snort drugs off,” Margot chimes in. “Don’t forget the drugs.”

 

Connor decides not to mention that his parents paid for college. It’s not something he likes to talk about - his overall lack of crippling student debt - when he knows it’s something hanging over the head of a decent chunk of people his age.

 

“Didn’t you do your Masters?” Connor asks Margot pointedly.

 

“Still doing it,” she confesses. She’s put the diploma back down on the bed and is now rolling a joint on it. “Think there’s a spot for me at Leather Bird when I graduate?”

 

“I’m not the boss,” he says honestly, even though the whole damn point of Leather Bird Publishing is that no one is. “But yeah. Maybe. If things take off a bit more, maybe we can hire another editor.”

 

“Speaking of which, when are you finishing your book?” Eddie asks. “Wasn’t the whole point of this publishing company so that you could publish your own shit?”

 

“You can’t rush genius,” Connor replies easily, taking the joint Andi had given him out from behind his ear and relighting it with the lighter from his pocket.

 

He turns the lighter around in his hands a few times.

 

There’s a knock on the door, even though he knows he left it open. Connor turns around to see Richard standing in the doorway in his expensive lawyer coat with his expensive lawyer haircut and internally starts screaming.

 

“Hey,” he says, for lack of anything else.

 

“Happy birthday,” says Richard, walking into the room. “Can we talk?” He looks pointedly at Margot and Eddie, who both turn to Connor. Connor sighs, then nods, and his friends leave the room and shut the door behind them.

 

Then it’s just him and his (maybe) ex… whatever in his room.

 

“Did Andi invite you, too?” Connor asks, barely able to cover his irritation.

 

Richard shakes his head. “I knew she’d throw a party,” he says. “And I knew it was your birthday, so… I took a chance.” He sits down on the edge of Connor’s bed. “You weren’t answering my calls, what the hell was I supposed to do?”

 

Connor rolls his eyes. “Take a fucking hint?”

 

Richard sighs. Smooths down his expensive coat. “I thought we could talk this out like adults.”

 

Connor closes his eyes in irritation and opens them again. “So,” he begins matter-of-factly. “The last time we fucked, you told me you loved me.”

 

Richard nods. “I did.”

 

“Right. So if you could, like, not do that again, that would be great.”

 

Richard just looks at him for a moment. Then takes his hand. “I’m going to leave him.”

 

Connor shakes his head. “Nope.”

 

“I’ll leave him for you, Connor.”

 

“That is… no, that isn’t what I want,” Connor says firmly. “If you’re not happy or you want some kind of excuse to fuck off or whatever, that’s not on me. It’s not fair that you put that on me.”

 

Connor pulls away from his hand. Richard sighs in frustration, which Connor thinks is pretty fucking hypocritical of him because it’s not like he’s the one being unreasonable right now.

 

“I’ve never felt about anyone the way I-”

 

“This is bullshit,” Connor announces, standing up and getting his jacket from its spot on an armchair next to his bed. “I’m not having this conversation with you right now.”

 

“So when are we going to have this conversation?” Richard demands. “We’ve been together for a year.”

 

“We’ve been fucking for a year,” Connor corrects him. “We’re not together. We’re not… we’re not anything.”

 

“That’s not how I see it.”

 

“Well, that’s your problem.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“Seriously, what the _fuck_ did I _just_ say?”

 

Connor puts on his jacket and hightails it out of the room as fast as he can. He slams the door of his room behind him, hoping like fuck Richard’s not going to follow him.

 

He’s pretty sure he won’t. The fact that Richard cornered Connor in his room rather than waiting for him to head to the main party makes him think that he doesn’t want some kind of public scene.

 

Richard’s got a reputation to uphold, after all.

 

Connor’s pushing his way through the crowd of people in the living room to get to the door when he feels someone grab his arm.

 

He turns quickly to yell at them and finds himself face to face with his sister.

 

“Connor.”

 

“Zoe.”

 

Zoe looks him up and down. “Bailing on your own party?” she asks, her tone more than a little caustic.

 

Connor shrugs. “It’s not my party.”

 

“It’s your birthday.”

 

“Doesn’t mean it’s my party. Or that I want you here.”

 

Zoe recoils a little, but recovers quickly. “Wow. Okay. Asshole.”

 

“Enjoy Andi’s garlic bread,” Connor says with a roll of his eyes. “I’m going to get more booze.”

 

With that, he pushes past his sister and leaves the apartment. It’s not a long walk to the local liquor store, and the fact that it’s a bitterly cold day in February means he’s going as fast as he can so he doesn’t freeze on the spot.

 

He sees Andre behind the counter when he arrives, who smiles when he sees him.

 

“Hey man, how’s it going?”

 

“Slow night,” Andre says, nodding. “Guess it’s too cold for booze or whatever.”

 

“Never too cold for booze,” Connor shoots back with a wry smile.

 

Andre rolls his eyes. “At least you keep me in business,” he replies with a tone that could almost be considered fond. “The only other customer I’ve had in the last hour is that guy over there.” Connor follows Andre’s glance to see a figure in a warm looking jacket, a hat and a scarf, standing still and staring at a bottle of rum on the shelf.

 

“Huh,” says Connor. He turns back to Andre. “Did it arrive?”

 

Andre nods again, then reaches under the counter and produces a bottle of Chivas whisky. Connor smiles at the sight, then pulls out his wallet.

 

“This is pretentious asshole whisky, you do realize that?” says Andre matter-of-factly.

 

“Yeah, well, I’ve been told I’m a pretentious asshole.”

 

“I could have gotten the twelve-year-old without a problem,” Andre says with a sigh. “But no, you had to go for the old shit.”

 

“Your efforts are appreciated,” Connor says with a grin. “How much do I owe you?”

 

Andre tells him the price and Connor’s glad he made the liquor store run by himself because if Andi knew how much he was spending on alcohol she’d fucking lose her shit. He pulls out his wallet and hands Andre a thick wad of cash.

 

As Connor reaches for the bottle, Andre pulls it away with a smirk. “ID, please.”

 

Connor sighs. “We’ve known each other for eight fucking years, Andre.”

 

“Rules are rules, man. ID.”

 

Connor swears under his breath, then pulls his ID from his wallet and slams it on the counter. Andre makes a show of picking it up and inspecting it.

 

“Oh hey, happy birthday.” Andre laughs. “You’re only two years older than your pretentious asshole whisky.”

 

There’s a loud crash and the sound of shattering glass.

 

Andre swears loudly. Connor looks over to see the guy who’d been staring at the rum now staring at the mess of rum and glass on the floor, a flood of apologies coming from his mouth.

Connor’s got this weird feeling in his head, like he’s just taken a bite of aluminium foil.

 

The bell over the door chimes and a pile of people stream in. Connor can tell from the smell and their lack of warm weather attire that they’re probably drunk, they’re probably students and they’re probably underage.

 

He picks up his whisky and leaves the store, shooting Andre an apologetic shrug as he goes.

 

The walk back to his apartment feels longer.

 

Connor still feels on edge and he can’t quite figure out why. Maybe whatever was in the joint Andi gave him is making him paranoid.

 

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d ended up on a bad trip thanks to his roommate. Andi’s approach to pharmaceuticals was what one might call ‘experimental’.

 

Connor’s not ready to go back to the party yet. Not really.

 

He sits down at the bus stop, opens his bottle of fancy aged whisky and takes a swig right from the bottle.

 

It’s pretty fucking good. There’s something to be said for quality whisky.

 

Now that he’s not moving, the cold is catching up with him. He’s wearing a jacket but the wind is going right through him.

 

It’s been a cold winter and the assholes on the radio keep talking about how global warming can’t possibly be real if it’s this fucking cold, which is complete and utter bullshit. Connor doesn’t really know a whole lot about climate change, but he knows the planet is fucked and it’s got more to do with corporations than whether or not he uses a fucking plastic straw.

 

He keeps drinking.

 

He thinks it’s probably too late for a bus to show up and it’s cold enough that the streets are pretty much deserted.

 

Pretty much.

 

He can hear music.

 

It takes him a while to figure out where it’s coming from.

 

There’s a guy across the road, playing the guitar under a streetlamp. It’s a song Connor doesn’t recognize, but he likes it. It’s kind of sad and mournful but hopeful at the same time, and Connor’s always been a sucker for those kinds of mixed emotions.

 

He’s got some cash in his wallet, still.

 

May as well start twenty-seven with some fucking philanthropy.

 

Connor takes another swig of his whisky, enjoying the slight burn as it goes down, then steps out into the street.

 

He barely has time to notice that he recognizes the face on the side of the bus before it slams right into him and sends him flying into the air.

 

There’s pain and sharp heat and his vision is rapidly dimming and everything is wet and he’s not sure if it’s his fucking expensive whisky or blood and-

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door.

 

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  
“What the _fuck?”_


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wannabe tragic bohemian thing is getting a little old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mentions of drug use in this chapter.

He’s in the bathroom. 

 

He was just hit by a fucking bus but now he’s in the bathroom, staring down his own reflection. 

 

The knocking on the bathroom door gets louder. 

 

Connor washes his hands, for want of anything else better to do, then looks around the bathroom, trying to make some kind of sense of everything. 

 

He’s…

 

He pats himself down, trying to make sure he’s all in one piece, even though he knows that he should have broken bones and blood and some kind of physical evidence that he was just hit by a fucking bus, Jesus Christ. 

 

This has got to be some kind of fucking hallucination. 

 

Or a bad trip. 

 

Andi’s joint. 

 

Gotta be Andi’s joint. What the fuck was in that thing?

 

He opens the door of the bathroom. A girl with pink hair pushes past and shuts the door on him almost before he’s managed to actually leave the room. There are people he vaguely recognizes wishing him a happy birthday and he heads into the kitchen to see Andi kneading bread on the counter island. 

 

Exactly like he imagined it. 

 

Or lived it before. 

 

He doesn’t know. 

 

“Welcome to the 27 Club!” says Andi. She’s still kneading the bread. 

 

She looks exactly the same as she always does - same dyed red hair in an afro, same dark skin, same septum piercing and John Lennon-esque glasses. 

 

Connor remembers a particularly entertaining evening where a ridiculously high Andi lamented the fact that some chick she picked up at a bar complimented her on her Harry Potter glasses. 

 

“The fact that Harry Potter is her cultural touchstone for these frames and not John Lennon is a travesty,” she’d announced, eating cream cheese straight from the block. “Not that I have anything against Harry Potter, but… doesn’t anyone appreciate the classics anymore?”

 

“John Lennon was a piece of shit who beat his wife,” Connor had pointed out before confiscating the cream cheese. 

 

Andi had responded by flipping him off. 

 

“Dude, what’s with you?” 

 

“Okay, what the fuck was in that joint you gave me?” Connor blurts out. 

 

Andi’s eyebrows hit her hairline. She pulls the joint out of her bra. “You mean the joint that I haven’t given you yet?” She looks more than a little confused for a moment, then something shifts in her expression. “Oh man, did Ethel tell you? That bitch just can’t keep a secret to save her life, I swear to god.”

 

“I think I’m on a bad trip,” Connor says, a little dazedly. “I was… I was here, at the party, then I went to pick up booze and got hit by a bus and now I’m back at the party and all of this has already happened.” He gestures widely at the room, then takes the joint from Andi and looks at it suspiciously. “What did you say was in this?”

 

“It’s laced with cocaine,” Andi says. At this point, she just looks kind of amused. “You’ve been pregaming, huh.”

 

“No,” Connor replies defensively. “I’m just… I’m pretty sure I died.”

 

Andi rolls her eyes. “Sure, man. I’m pretty sure you’re fucking indestructible.” She looks across the room and her eyes light up. Connor follows her gaze to see his sister, standing in his dining room, talking to some guy he vaguely knows from the bookstore. 

 

“You invited my sister,” Connor says. This bit he remembers. 

 

“That I did,” says Andi proudly. “Maybe it’s finally time. Maybe tonight’s the night I finally bang your sister.”

 

“Gross,” says Connor. 

 

“Hey, Blossom wants what she wants,” says Andi, and she’s definitely checking out his sister and he still wishes he didn’t know that she calls her vagina Blossom.

 

Connor puts the joint in his pocket, goes over to the bench and pours himself a glass of whisky, then heads in his sister’s direction. He takes a sip of the whisky and tries not to grimace because it’s nowhere near as smooth as the stuff he ordered from Andre. 

 

He thinks. 

 

There is definitely something fucking weird going on, so he’s going to avoid the joint in his pocket and the drugs Margot and Eddie are doing in his bedroom and hope like hell everything sorts itself out. 

 

Zoe turns away from the guy she’s talking to and offers him a smile that doesn’t quite sit right on her face. “Happy birthday,” she says, a little curtly. 

 

“Didn’t think you’d be caught dead at a party like this,” Connor says. He’s not sure what to say, because he hasn’t talked to Zoe in a while. 

 

“Andi invited me,” Zoe says. She takes a sip of her own drink. “Not usually my scene, but… well, I figured I could use a night out, and it is your birthday, so…”

 

“Good to see you,” Connor replies, not sure if that’s true. It might be, he thinks, because this isn’t something he remembers so maybe if something new is happening, then it’s all okay and it was just some kind of weird glitch. 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Richard in his fancy expensive jacket. 

 

Fuck. 

 

He focuses his attention back on his sister. 

 

She seems… agitated, but also kind of sad. If they were a normal brother and sister, he might ask her what’s wrong, but that’s not how they do things, so instead, he just takes a sip of his whisky. 

 

“How’s the publishing company?” Zoe asks, her tone polite but short. 

 

“It’s fine,” Connor replies. 

 

Zoe looks like she’s about to say something, but then frowns a little and pulls her phone from her pocket. As she looks at the screen, an expression of irritation and mild disgust spreads across her face. 

 

“What’s going on?” he asks, even though he doesn’t think he actually cares. 

 

“Just a Facebook notification,” Zoe replies. “Sabrina Patel got engaged.”

 

Connor feels like that name is supposed to mean something to him. “Okay.”

 

“We went to high school with her,” Zoe continues, her tone getting more and more annoyed. Connor’s not sure if she’s annoyed at him or Sabrina or someone completely different, but she’s definitely annoyed. “She was in your year.”

 

“Huh.”

 

Zoe looks at her phone again and frowns. “I don’t know who the fuck this Graham Smith is, but last time I heard she was dating some guy from back home. Can’t remember his name, but he was in your year as well.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“He was… quiet.”

 

“Right.”

 

Zoe rolls her eyes. “You don’t care about this at all, do you?”

 

“Honestly? I try not to think about high school.” Connor’s getting slightly annoyed. “Not all of us had as good a time as you did.”

 

“No one has a good time in high school.”

 

“Weren’t you nominated for Prom Queen?”

 

Zoe huffs in annoyance. It reminds Connor of their mom. “I didn’t win.”

 

“Oh, I know,” says Connor sarcastically. “But they always say that it’s an honor to be nominated.”

 

Zoe scowls. “You know what, fuck you. I don’t even know why I bothered to come tonight.”

 

Connor rolls his eyes. “Probably because it’s obvious Andi wants in your pants and you like the attention.”

 

“Wow,” says Zoe caustically. “Okay. You know what? One of these days I might just fuck your roommate and see how you like it.”

 

“Do whatever the hell you want,” Connor shoots back. “You always do.”

 

Zoe lets out a harsh laugh. “I’m sorry, I think that’s my line. You’re the one who just floats through life getting high and not giving a fuck about anyone but yourself.” She takes a sip of her drink then continues. “I mean, seriously Connor. You’re twenty-seven. Don’t you think this wannabe tragic bohemian thing is getting a little old?”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“If this were France in the 1890s, you’d be going out trying to get tuberculosis,” Zoe continues with another roll of her eyes. “It doesn’t make you interesting.”

 

“Thanks for the analysis,” Connor snaps. “Do you talk your patients like this? Or is it more a case of giving them some crayons and telling them to draw how they’re feeling?” 

 

“I don’t have to stand here and take your bullshit.”

 

“You don’t,” Connor agrees, “because I didn’t fucking invite you.” 

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Fuck you!”

 

Zoe stalks off into the crowd of people. Connor resists the urge to punch the wall and instead downs his entire glass of whisky. 

 

He heads to the front door of his apartment and goes out into the hallway. 

 

Takes a deep breath. 

 

Less than a minute later, he hears the door open and shut behind him. 

 

“Happy birthday,” says a familiar voice. 

 

Connor closes his eyes in irritation. 

 

“Richard, what the fuck are you doing here?”

 

“I wanted to talk to you,” says Richard, his voice insistent. “You’re not answering my calls.”

 

Instead of dignifying that comment with a response, Connor starts walking toward the stairwell. 

 

He trips on the first step and goes hurtling down the stairs, hitting his head on the bannister and feeling something in his neck snap. He can hear someone screaming his name and -

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

Rubs his neck. 

 

“Jesus _ fuck,” _ he mutters to himself. 

 

His heart is pounding like crazy. 

 

His reflection in the mirror looks freaked out, but no different than usual. 

 

No signs of a snapped neck from falling down the stairs. 

 

Or being hit by a bus. 

 

He washes his face, hoping it’ll make him feel a little better. It doesn’t, but at least he’s done something. 

 

His hands are shaking as he opens the bathroom door. A girl with pink hair pushes past him and almost shuts the door on his arm. 

 

Connor makes his way through the crowds of people who are wishing him Happy Birthday and goes into the kitchen where Andi is kneading bread. 

 

“Welcome to the 27 Club!” she says cheerfully. 

 

Connor pours himself a glass of whisky and downs it all in one go. 

 

Then pours himself another. 

 

He has no idea what the fuck is happening but he knows he needs to be drunk right now. 

 

“Whoa, okay,” says Andi, almost approvingly. “Tonight you’re here to party, huh?”

 

“Absolutely,” says Connor firmly, before drinking the second glass. 

 

“Good thing I’ve got you a gift,” says Andi, pulling a joint from her bra and presenting it to him with a flourish. “Happy Birthday.”

 

Connor pulls his lighter out of his pocket and lights the joint quickly. Andi’s eyes widen and she takes the lighter out of his hands and throws it in the bin.

 

“I’m not letting you carry around a white lighter on your twenty-seventh birthday, Connor, Jesus fucking Christ!”

 

The lighter. 

 

Something in Connor’s shoulders relaxes. 

 

Maybe it’s the lighter. He remembers reading how a bunch of those famous people who died at 27 all had white lighters in their pockets when they died. 

 

He’s also pretty sure Snopes debunked that whole thing. 

 

But it’s something he can try. 

 

If the lighter’s in the trash and not in his pocket, then maybe…

 

He pours himself more whisky, raises a glass in Andi’s direction and then heads to his room before his roommate can make another comment about how she wants to fuck his sister. 

 

Margot and Eddie are snorting lines off his bachelor’s degree. 

 

Connor doesn’t hesitate. He takes another hit of his joint, downs his third glass of whisky and helps himself to whatever it is his friends are snorting. 

 

“I see you’re really getting into the whole party spirit,” Margot says with a lazy smile. She pulls a baggie out of her pocket. “I was saving this for later, but…”

 

Connor takes the baggie from Margot and gives her a mocking salute. 

 

Decides he wants another drink first. He thinks there’s a bottle of rum in his bookshelf. 

 

He gets up, goes to his bookshelf and pulls out the hollowed out encyclopedia he uses to hide his alcohol from his roommate. 

 

The bookshelf creaks and falls on top of him. There’s a sharp pain in his head and a crushing sensation on his chest and -

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven years of bad luck.

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

He has got to get out of this apartment. 

 

He pushes past the girl with the pink hair as he leaves the bathroom and she lets out a yelp of indignation. 

 

He doesn’t fucking care. 

 

“Welcome to the 27 Club!” says Andi as he walks through the kitchen. 

 

He doesn’t stop. 

 

He pushes through the crowds of people, trying to avoid his sister who’s talking to some guy from the bookstore, and heads out into the hallway of his apartment. 

 

Trips over the front step of the staircase and hits his head on the bannister. 

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

Sprints out of the bathroom, through the crowds of people. Stands at the top of the staircase and takes a deep breath. He’s about to take a step when someone bowls into him and sends him flying down the stairs. There’s a sickening crunch, and

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

“Fuck!”

 

This time when he stands at the top of the staircase, he decides to go for a different approach. 

 

He sits down on the top stair and uses his butt to shuffle down the stairs, as carefully as he can manage. 

 

He’s aware he looks ridiculous but he doesn’t fucking care. 

 

Once he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he stands up, as carefully as he can, and heads out the front door of the apartment building. 

 

Takes a breath of the cold night air. 

 

Closes his eyes. 

 

Decides he could really use that fancy whisky right about now. 

 

The liquor store’s not far from his apartment. He starts walking in the right direction, hugging himself to keep warm as he’s not wearing a jacket. 

 

He’s idly thinking that he might die from hypothermia this time when he finds himself falling down an open manhole, and -

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

“FUCK!”

 

Connor punches the mirror. 

 

He can immediately feel pain shooting up his arm, and there’s blood and the mirror is cracked and that’s supposed to be seven years of bad luck but honestly, at this point seven years seems like a completely unfathomable goal because he’s just died six times and it shows no signs of stopping. 

 

Connor gets out of the bathroom as quickly as he can and heads for his room, where Margot and Eddie are happily doing drugs on his bachelor’s degree. 

 

“Happy birthday,” says Margot with a smile. 

 

Connor picks up his jacket and his wallet and leaves the room without saying a word. 

 

He has to go through the kitchen to get to the front door. It can’t be helped. 

 

“Welcome to the 27 Club!”

 

Connor fishes around for his lighter in his pocket. 

 

Throws it in the trash. 

 

Offers Andi a half-hearted salute and then pushes his way through the crowds of people to the front door. 

 

Sits on the front step of the staircase. 

 

Shuffles down on his butt. 

 

Gets up at the bottom, takes a deep breath and heads out the front door of the apartment building. 

 

He starts walking toward the liquor store, slower this time, keeping an eye out for manholes. 

 

Somehow, miraculously, he makes it to the store. Andre’s behind the counter, as always, and he’s got his nose stuck in a book. 

 

Connor looks at the cover.  _ Anna Karenina _ . 

 

“Solid choice,” he says, instead of a greeting. 

 

Andre puts the book down and looks at him. “Connor. Hi.”

 

“How’s it going?” Connor asks, trying to sound normal and not like he’d just slid down the stairs of his apartment building on his butt like a crazy person because he’d just died six times in a row. 

 

“Slow night,” Andre says with a nod. “It’s been empty for hours. Guess it’s too cold for booze or whatever.”

 

“Never too cold for booze,” Connor shoots back automatically, then winces because he thinks he’s said this before and look how that turned out. 

 

Andre rolls his eyes. “At least you keep me in business,” he replies with a tone that could almost be considered fond.

 

“Sure,” says Connor, looking around the store to see that it’s empty. There’s no sign of the guy standing there, trying to make a decision about rum. 

 

He must be too early. 

 

Andre looks at him, frowning slightly. “You okay, man?”

 

“Yeah,” Connor says distractedly. “Oh hey, did it arrive?”

 

Andre nods again, then reaches under the counter and produces a bottle of Chivas whisky. Connor stares at it for a long moment. 

 

“This is pretentious asshole whisky, you do realize that?” says Andre matter-of-factly. 

 

“Yep,” says Connor shortly. 

 

“I could have gotten the twelve-year-old without a problem,” Andre says with a sigh. “But no, you had to go for the old shit.”

 

A chill runs down Connor’s spine, and he tries to tell himself that it doesn’t matter. He pulls out a thick wad of cash and hands it to Andre, who looks through it, a little surprised.

 

Connor reaches for the bottle. Andre pulls it away with a smirk. “ID, please.”

 

Connor pulls his ID from his wallet and puts it on the counter without bothering to argue. Andre makes a show of picking it up and inspecting it. 

 

“Oh hey, happy birthday.” Andre laughs. “You’re only two years older than your pretentious asshole whisky.”

 

“Sure,” says Connor. His heart won’t stop beating and he’s starting to feel uncomfortably hot and he just wants to get through tonight without dying painfully if he can help it. 

 

Connor takes the whisky, smiles awkwardly at Andre and then heads out of the door, running smack into a group of obviously underage students. 

 

The cold hits him like a smack in the face. 

 

It’s way too cold, he thinks. 

 

Too cold for anyone to be out. 

 

He walks a little further, being careful of manholes, then finds himself at the bus stop again. 

 

He sits down. 

 

He decides he’s going to wait until he sees the bus drive past. 

 

No point in waiting sober, Connor decides. He opens the bottle of whisky and starts drinking. 

 

It takes maybe twenty minutes, but eventually, the bus arrives. Connor shakes his head at the driver, but he stops briefly anyway to let people off, which gives Connor time to try to figure out why he recognizes the face on the side of the bus. 

 

When he sees the name, it all slots into place. 

 

ALANA BECK FOR COMMUNITY BOARD

 

“Huh,” he finds himself saying aloud. 

 

Connor genuinely had no idea that Alana Beck lived in New York. He’s not particularly surprised she’s running for some kind of local office. It seems like the kind of thing she’d do, probably as part of some grand plan that culminates in her being president one day. 

 

If he lives long enough to see Alana Beck run for President, she’s sure as fuck got his vote. 

 

The bus leaves. Connor takes another chug of his whisky. 

 

He can hear music playing. 

 

He looks across the road to see the guitarist from the other night. 

 

Tonight. 

 

Whatever. 

 

Now that he’s paying more attention, this guy looks kind of familiar. 

 

Connor stands up. 

 

Looks both ways.

 

Hopes for the best. 

 

Then he sprints across the road. 

 

When he makes it to the other side in one piece, he genuinely laughs. 

 

“Holy shit,” he says with a grin. “Holy fucking shit.” The guy with the guitar stops playing and looks at him. Connor winces apologetically. “Hey man, don’t stop on my account.”

 

The song continues and Connor fumbles for his wallet. He pulls out a wad of twenties and puts them in the guy’s guitar case. 

 

He stops playing immediately and stares at the money. 

 

Then back at Connor. 

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You got somewhere to sleep tonight?” Connor finds himself asking. “It’s cold as balls out here.”

 

The guy shrugs. “I’ve survived worse.”

 

Connor nods. “Respect.” He hands him the bottle of whisky. “Want some?”

 

The guy nods, then takes the bottle and has a large sip. Then he nods again in appreciation. “This is the good shit.”

 

“It’s my birthday,” Connor feels the need to explain. 

 

The guy smiles a crooked smile. “Happy birthday.”

 

“I’m Connor.”

 

“Otis.”

 

Otis sits down with his guitar and Connor sits next to him. 

 

He’s not sure what to do next. 

 

“Play me something?” Connor asks. 

 

Otis seems to consider. “What do you want me to play?”

 

Connor shrugs. “Something… I don’t know, something like what you were playing before.”

 

Otis just looks at him, his expression thoughtful. “Did you know the song?”

 

“Nah,” Connor confesses. “I just… I liked how it felt, you know?” 

 

Otis nods. “How did it feel?”

 

Connor considers. Takes another swig of his whisky. “It made me feel sad and hopeful at the same time,” he tries to explain. “Like… I don’t know, there was this sense of… internal conflict or whatever. But not even conflict. It was like those two feelings could coexist. They weren’t fighting each other, they were just… both making space for each other, you know? It just felt really… I don’t know, really fucking human.” Connor laughs, a little self-conscious all of a sudden, then drinks some more. “That sounds fucking stupid.”

 

“I don’t think so,” says Otis honestly. “I think you’re getting it.”

 

Connor shrugs. “Maybe.”

 

Otis starts playing, strumming his guitar gently. When he starts to sing, it rings out true and clear in the cold of the night. 

 

Connor leans his head back against the fence. 

 

Closes his eyes. 

 

Lets the music wash over him. 

 

He can feel himself drifting and - 

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

There’s a deep chill in his bones. 

 

He washes his hands and dries them. 

 

Stares at his face in the mirror again. 

 

“Fuck,” he says softly, then heads out of the bathroom and past the girl with pink hair who almost slams the door on his arm. 

 

He heads into the kitchen, where Andi’s kneading bread on the kitchen island. 

 

“Welcome to the 27 Club!”

 

“I think I’m dead,” Connor announces. 

 

Andi nods. “Aren’t we all?”

 

“You invited my sister to this party, didn’t you?”

 

Andi nods again, her face breaking into a smile. “I sure did.”

 

“Because you want to sleep with her.”

 

Andi tilts her head a little. “Well, yes,” she admits. “And I think it sucks that you guys live in the same city and barely speak to each other. My brothers live in Iowa but I still talk to them more often than you talk to Zoe, it’s completely fucking insane.”

 

“Maybe,” Connor concedes. He looks out into the dining room to see his sister, talking to some guy he recognizes from the bookstore. 

 

He pours himself a glass of whisky and heads toward her. 

 

Her face lights up a little when she sees him, but it shuts down quickly. 

 

Connor feels a rock in his stomach at the realization. 

 

Maybe she does actually want to be here. 

 

“Happy birthday,” says Zoe, her tone even and matter-of-fact. 

 

“Thanks for coming,” he says awkwardly. “How, uh, how are you?”

 

“I’m fine,” she says defensively. Connor looks at her. Her face crumples. “Okay, I’m not fine. Craig and I broke up.”

 

For the life of him, Connor cannot picture this Craig dude. But still, if he’s hurt his sister then he’s going to kick this guy’s ass. “Bastard,” he says. “Like he could do better than you.”

 

Zoe stares at him for a moment, then kind of laughs. “No, I broke up with him,” she says, her tone more than a little bitter. 

 

“What did he do?” Connor asks. 

 

Zoe takes a sip of her drink, then sighs. “Motherfucker proposed.”

 

Connor frowns. “He proposed?”

 

“Yep,” says Zoe curtly, swirling her drink around in the glass. “He even called Dad and asked for permission. Can you fucking imagine? Like, what the fucking hell?”

 

It’s starting to make sense now. “Yeah, I can see how that would be a dealbreaker for you,” Connor says with a nod. 

 

Zoe nods, a little firmer this time. “I know, right? I mean, for fuck’s sake.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I kind of went off at Craig for it. It’s completely fucking insane. I mean, what the hell - did Dad, like, promise him livestock, too? How many fucking  _ goats _ am I worth, Craig?” 

 

Connor lets out an involuntary laugh. Zoe shoots him a dirty look, then starts laughing herself. “That sucks,” says Connor, as sympathetically as he can. “Did you talk to Dad?”

 

Zoe shakes her head. “I haven’t yet, no.” She sighs. “It kind of literally just happened, so…”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

Zoe looks at her phone. “Yeah, it’s, what… ten pm? We were at dinner maybe an hour and a half ago and he popped the question.”

 

“Jesus,” Connor mutters. “No wonder you’re here, then.”

 

“I kind of needed a distraction,” Zoe admits. 

 

Connor’s a little surprised. This is the most civil conversation they’ve had in years. 

 

Maybe there’s something to be said about the near-death experiences. 

 

Well, death experiences. 

 

He’s definitely sure he died. 

 

It’s all very… A Christmas Carol. Maybe. 

 

Zoe looks like she’s about to say something else, but before she does, she frowns and looks at her phone. Her frown deepens and she sighs. “And that’s just fucking perfect.”

 

“What is?”

 

“Sabrina Patel just got engaged,” Zoe announces. 

 

Connor considers. “Wasn’t she in my year in school?”

 

Zoe’s eyes widen in surprise. Like she wasn’t expecting him to remember that. 

 

He’s irrationally annoyed at her expression, which he knows is dumb because… he literally did not remember, it’s just that she’d already told him. 

 

“Yeah,” says Zoe, nodding. “And, like, this guy she’s engaged to? Graham Smith? I don’t know who the fuck he is, because last time I heard she was dating some guy from back home. Can’t remember his name, but he was in your year as well.”

 

Connor takes a sip of his drink. “I don’t really remember many people from high school,” he admits. 

 

Zoe shrugs. “This guy was... quiet. Kind of nervous?”

 

Connor shrugs. At the back of his mind, it feels like there’s a name he should remember, but it’s definitely not important right now. “Huh.”

 

Zoe takes another sip of her drink. Looks around the room. Then looks back at Connor.

 

“I mean, she can’t have been with this guy for long. Like, maybe eighteen months? And they’re getting married? It’s complete bullshit.” Zoe sighs. “Marriage is bullshit.”

 

Connor rolls his eyes. “Wow,” he deadpans. “The child of divorce is bitter about marriage. How original.”

 

“Fuck you,” says Zoe, but it’s almost… affectionate this time. 

 

“How many goats did Craig say you were worth, in the end?”

 

Zoe actually laughs. “He didn’t say. I think he realized that there was no right answer to that question.”

 

Connor finds himself laughing as well. “Yeah,” he agrees. “There’s really not.”

 

There’s a hand on his shoulder. 

 

He turns around and is face to face with Richard. “Can we talk?” he asks. 

 

“I’m kind of in the middle of something,” Connor replies, more than a little irritated. 

 

Richard turns to Zoe and flashes a charming smile. “You must be Connor’s sister,” he says, extending a hand to shake. Zoe takes it, her expression shifting to something unreadable. “I just wanted to borrow your brother for a moment.”

 

“Uh, sure,” says Zoe, looking at Connor a little quizzically. 

 

Connor sighs. 

 

He’s pissed, because he’s finally having an okay conversation with Zoe, but he also knows how fucking persistent Richard can be. 

 

Maybe it’s best to just rip the Band-Aid off with this one. 

 

Instead of leading Richard to his room, he heads out the front door, figuring they can talk in the hallway. 

 

Hopefully, it won’t give him any fucking ideas. 

 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Richard?”

 

“You weren’t answering my calls,” he says. “What was I supposed to do?”

 

“Take a fucking hint?” 

 

Richard sighs and takes a breath. “Look, Connor-”

 

“I don’t love you,” Connor interrupts. “The sex has been fine or whatever but I don’t love you and I don’t want to be with you and I really,  _ really _ don’t want you to leave your husband and kid for me, okay? If you’re not happy with your life, then you do what you need to change it, but don’t use me as an excuse, because that’s not what I signed up for.”

 

Richard recoils as if Connor had physically slapped him. 

 

Part of Connor wishes he had. 

 

“Wow. Okay.”

 

“I didn’t invite you,” Connor says irritably. “And I know Andi didn’t. So if you could just leave, that would be great.”

 

Richard looks at him for a long moment, then puts his hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re scared-”

 

Connor pulls away violently. 

 

It’s only then that he realizes he’s at the top of the stairs. 

 

There’s a swooping feeling in his stomach as he falls. He hears a sickening crunch, feels pain shoot through his body and everything goes black and

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe be damned.

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

Takes in a long, shaky breath. 

 

He can still feel his bones breaking. 

 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

 

He’s losing it. 

 

He’s fucking losing it. 

 

He pushes his way past the girl with the pink hair outside the bathroom door and heads straight for his sister in the dining room. 

 

“I keep reliving the same night over and over again,” he announces. 

 

Zoe blinks at him. “Hello to you, too.”

 

“I’m serious,” he insists. “I keep dying. Over and over again.”

 

Zoe’s frowning. “If this is some kind of bullshit bohemian metaphor-”

 

“Eight times,” he interrupts her. “Eight times I have died and then come right back to the bathroom which, by the way, just keeps looking more and more vaginal each time and vaginas are not my area, okay?” 

 

“Okay,” says Zoe firmly. “You’re obviously high.”

 

“I’m not high! Not this time, anyway.” He sighs. “Look, I need your professional advice, okay?” 

 

“I’m a child psychologist,” Zoe says slowly. “In training.”

 

“Aren’t you taking, like, regular clients at the university?” Connor demands. “I need you to fix me. I need you to fix… this.”

 

Zoe blinks a few times. Sighs. Rubs her face. “Okay,” she says finally. “I have a free slot at ten am tomorrow. I’ll text you the address. Meet me there and we’ll talk.”

 

“Sure,” says Connor, letting out a laugh that he knows sounds more than a little hysterical. “If I’m alive tomorrow, then sure.”

 

Zoe’s eyes widen and she looks at Connor with real concern in her eyes. “Do I need to call someone?” she says, her voice soft and concerned. “Are you safe?”

 

“I got hit by a bus with Alana Beck’s face on it,” Connor says, not sure how to answer that question. “Did you know she’s running for Community Board? I don’t even know what that is.”

 

Zoe frowns. “Okay. Ten am tomorrow,” she says firmly. “We will talk. In the meantime, maybe just… get some sleep, okay?”

 

“It’s only ten pm,” Connor feels compelled to point out. 

 

“You just told me that you’ve died eight times,” Zoe shoots back. 

 

“And your response to that is that I should get some sleep?”

 

“A lack of sleep can have some genuinely scary mental health repercussions,” Zoe says, and she’s matter-of-fact but still kind of gentle. “And you look exhausted. No offence.”

 

“Right,” says Connor dazedly. Maybe she’s right. Maybe getting some sleep is the key to all of this. If he can just make it until morning, then maybe it’ll all be okay. 

 

And he is really fucking tired. 

 

All this dying is exhausting. 

 

He goes to his room to find Margot and Eddie snorting lines off his diploma and unceremoniously kicks them out, despite their protests. 

 

Once he’s alone, he locks the door from the inside, ignoring the knocking that’s probably Richard, trying to have another bullshit conversation. 

 

He takes a deep breath and climbs into bed. 

 

Connor wakes up to the sun streaming through his window. He checks his phone to see that not only is it on two percent battery, but it’s also telling him that it’s three in the afternoon. 

 

He’s done it. 

 

He’s made it through the night. 

 

Maybe this nightmare is finally fucking over. 

 

Sure, he’s missed his appointment with his sister, but… he’s made it through the night. 

 

It’s all just been some kind of weird dream. 

 

Connor fumbles around for his phone charger, which has to be on his bedside table somewhere. After a few moments, he finds it and plugs in his phone. 

 

A sharp pain runs through his body. 

 

He barely has time to realize that he’s being electrocuted before -

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

 

Number nine. 

 

He has now died nine times. 

 

If cats have nine lives, then technically they can only die eight times, so… is he a cat? Is he more than a cat? 

 

What the fuck is happening?

 

Connor fumbles around in his pocket for the lighter. For some reason, he still thinks it might have something to do with it. 

 

The lighter’s gone. 

 

He has no idea why the lighter’s gone. 

 

This is… 

 

He gets out of the bathroom as fast as he can, pushing past the girl with pink hair and heading to the kitchen. 

 

“Welcome to the 27-”

 

“Nope!”

 

Andi stares at him. “Connor, what the fuck?”

 

“The universe is fucking with me!” he announces. “And I refuse to engage.”

 

Andi blinks. “I mean, I agree with the sentiment, but-”

 

“There is a joint in your bra,” he interrupts. “A birthday joint.” 

 

She sighs. “Did Ethel tell you? I swear, that woman can’t keep a secret to save her life.”

 

Connor takes the joint from Andi, then goes to the drawers and pulls out a box of matches. “I’m smoking this,” he announces before lighting the joint. “Universe be damned.”

 

“Sure,” says Andi, clearly slightly amused. 

 

“And I’m going to snort whatever the fuck it is Margot and Eddie are snorting off my framed diploma,” Connor continues. 

 

“Alright, then.”

 

“And if I survive the next few hours, I’m going to eat some fucking garlic bread,” Connor announces. “I have died nine times in the past… day and I am really, really hungry.”

 

“Babe,” says Andi seriously. “I will make extra.”

 

“Thank you.” 

 

With that, Connor heads to his room and joins Margot and Eddie on his bed. He locks the door from the inside so he doesn’t have to deal with fucking Richard and the three of them proceed to snort a ridiculous amount of whatever drug it is off Connor’s diploma. 

 

Connor wakes up to the sun shining right in his face. Margot’s spooning him, Eddie’s not wearing any pants and the frame of his diploma is broken. 

 

He wriggles out of Margot’s grasp then goes looking for his phone. When he finds it, he sees that it’s nearly one in the afternoon. 

 

Alright then. 

 

He gets up. Goes to the bathroom with trepidation. 

 

At any minute, he could drop dead. He’s definitely on borrowed time. 

 

He manages to pee and wash his hands and face without incident. 

 

Connor lets out a tiny sigh of relief.

 

The bathroom seems more and more terrifying every time he sees it. 

 

He leaves as quickly as he can and heads toward the kitchen because he’s fucking starving. 

 

There’s a whole loaf of garlic bread on the kitchen island. 

 

Connor breaks off a chunk and shoves it straight into his mouth. 

 

Then he tries to swallow. 

 

And all of a sudden, he’s gasping for breath and trying to remember how the fuck you Heimlich maneuver yourself and thinking that it’s completely fucking insane he’s about to choke to death on garlic bread and -

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

He can still taste garlic. 

 

“Ugh.”

 

He brushes his teeth, then heads out of the bathroom and the pink-haired girl pushes past him. She’s pissed off this time, which is probably fair enough because he might have taken a little longer to deal with the garlic breath. 

 

Connor goes into the kitchen and pours himself a drink. 

 

“Welcome to the 27 Club!” 

 

“Thanks,” says Connor wearily. 

 

He downs a glass of whisky. Then another. Then another. 

 

He looks around the crowd of people. Spots Zoe talking to a guy he vaguely knows from the bookstore. Sees Dave and Mikael from Leather Bird deep in animated conversation. 

 

Sees Richard in the corner, talking to some guy Connor thinks he might have gotten high with once. 

 

Connor walks over to Richard with purpose. 

 

“Hey,” says Richard, looking slightly surprised. “Happy Birthday.”

 

“Come with me,” says Connor firmly, grabbing Richard’s hand and dragging him toward his room. 

 

Margot and Eddie are snorting lines off Connor’s diploma, as usual. 

 

“Out,” he announces. 

 

Eddie takes one look at Richard then bursts out laughing. “Fine,” they say with a roll of their eyes, and they and Margot leave the room. 

 

Connor locks the door behind them and turns to Richard. 

 

“You haven’t been answering my calls,” Richard says. 

 

Connor grabs the collar of Richard’s coat and pulls him in for a kiss. Richard responds enthusiastically and pushes him toward the bed. 

 

Connor doesn’t love Richard. He doesn’t want him to leave his husband and kid for him. 

 

And he doesn’t really want to be sending mixed signals, but…

 

Well, he just died choking on garlic bread, and it’s his birthday, so he deserves to get laid. 

 

It’s not as good as he remembers. 

 

As soon as they’re done, Connor’s hit with a wave of such intense self-hatred that it makes him feel physically ill. He puts his clothes back on, picks up Richard’s clothes off the floor and throws them at him. 

 

“That was the last time,” Connor says flatly. “After this, we don’t talk to each other ever again.”

 

Richard just laughs. “Sure.”

 

“I’m serious,” Connor replies, and leaves the room. 

 

The whole apartment smells like garlic. Connor heads toward the kitchen to find Andi’s pulling garlic bread out of the oven. It smells delicious, but Connor’s still a little wary. 

 

Instead, he goes to pick an apple from the fruit bowl, only to find that it’s rotten. 

 

He drops it quickly. 

 

Gross. 

 

Connor heads out of the apartment and stands outside in the hallway for a moment. 

 

Wipes his hands on his pants. 

 

Thinks about whether he should go and pick up his whisky. 

 

He stands at the top of the staircase and tries to figure out his next move. 

 

Then his knee gives way and he falls down the stairs, hitting his head repeatedly on the steps as he falls, and there’s pain and wetness and the crunch of bones and - 

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

“Fuck.”

 

He leaves the bathroom, pushes past the chick with the pink hair and heads to his dining room until he finds Zoe. 

 

“You have a free session at ten am tomorrow,” he says determinedly. “I need your professional advice.”

 

Zoe’s eyes widen. “Uh, okay.”

 

“Craig’s an asshole,” he continues. “Asking Dad for permission is a bullshit move. If he’d paid any fucking attention to you and what you want, he’d know that.”

 

Zoe’s eyes widen even more. “Did Dad talk to you?”

 

“No,” Connor says. “You told me. I’m in some kind of bullshit Groundhog Day scenario and I need your help.”

 

Zoe sighs. “Connor, come on.”

 

“Your phone is about to tell you that Sabrina Patel is engaged,” he says firmly. “To some guy named… Graham. I think. But you thought that she was dating some quiet guy from back home.” 

 

Zoe just looks bewildered now. She pulls out her phone and her eyes widen. “Connor, what the actual fuck?”

 

“I have died eleven times,” Connor announces. “And I keep… I don’t know, respawning in the bathroom like the world’s most morbid video game. And reliving the same night.”

 

Zoe blinks a few times. “Okay,” she says finally. “So. Maybe we should talk to a professional.”

 

“You’re a professional.”

 

“I’m a professional in training.” 

 

“Zo, come on,” Connor says urgently. “I don’t want to fucking talk about this with anyone else. You said you had a ten am appointment free, so tomorrow we’ll talk about this in your office and you’ll do some kind of psychology magic and you’ll… you’ll fix it, okay?”

 

Zoe’s looking more and more freaked out. “Connor,” she says, pulling him to a quieter corner of the room. “Do we need to call someone now? To make sure you’re safe?”

 

“I’m not hurting myself,” Connor tells her bluntly. “I’m not. The fucking universe is doing it for me.”

 

“Okay,” says Zoe, her voice soothing. “Tomorrow at ten am. In the meantime…” 

 

“I know,” Connor says wearily. “I look exhausted. Lack of sleep causes all sorts of weird mental health things. That’s what you said the last time.”

 

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Zoe offers, a little hesitantly. “I could stay.”

 

Connor shakes his head violently because the last thing he wants is for Zoe to have to witness him dying a gruesome death, not after everything he’s already put her through. 

 

Even if he knows she wouldn’t remember it, it’s still not right. 

 

He still can’t do that. 

 

“I’m okay,” he assures her. “I’ll be okay. I just need some sleep, and then tomorrow we’ll talk, and… it’ll be fine.”

 

“Okay,” says Zoe again. “I’m going to walk you to your room, though.”

 

“Sure,” says Connor, hoping against hope that neither the ceiling or floor cave in, because he just really can’t handle his sister watching him die. 

 

They make it to Connor’s room without incident. 

 

Margot and Eddie are snorting something off Connor’s diploma. 

 

He really needs to find out what they’re snorting one of these days. 

 

“Out,” says Zoe sharply. 

 

“Dude,” says Margot with an approving look at Zoe. “Who’s this?”

 

“My sister,” Connor replies. 

 

Margot looks Zoe up and down and Connor sighs. 

 

He’s just so over his lesbian friends wanting to bang his sister. 

 

Once Margot and Eddie are out, Zoe picks up Connor’s diploma off the bed and looks at it. She lets out a harsh laugh. “I guess that’s one use for it.”

 

“I’m not making this shit up,” Connor feels compelled to say.

 

Zoe looks at him, frowning. “I don’t think you are,” she says after a moment. 

 

“So you believe me?”

 

“I believe that you believe it’s happening.”

 

“That’s not an answer.”

 

Zoe sighs. “Just get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll text you the address.”

 

Once Zoe leaves the room, Connor locks the door. 

 

Very carefully puts his phone on charge. 

 

Sets an alarm. 

 

Then curls up in his bed and goes to sleep. 

 

He wakes up to the sound of the alarm and reaches out to turn it off but stops himself just in time. 

 

Doesn’t want to electrocute himself. 

 

Very carefully, he picks up his phone and turns off the alarm. 

 

Very carefully, he goes to the bathroom and manages to pee, brush his teeth and shower in record time. 

 

He has to admit, he feels a little better being clean. 

 

He makes sure he’s dried his hands thoroughly before pulling out the hairdryer. 

 

Once his hair is dry, he heads back to his room to get changed, making sure he’s wearing something warm. 

 

Checking that he’s wearing sensible shoes so he doesn’t slip or whatever. 

 

He just…

 

Really fucking wants this to end. 

 

Very carefully, Connor leaves the apartment and heads out into the hall. 

 

He sits on the top step and slides down the stairs, slowly and carefully. 

 

When he gets to the bottom, he stands up and gingerly walks out of the apartment building. 

 

Once he’s on the street, Connor’s feeling a little better about things. He manages to hail a taxi without any problems. Sure, he may be holding on to the seat for dear life the entire drive, but he’s pleasantly surprised when they arrive at the building where Zoe’s currently working without a horrific car crash. 

 

He tips the guy generously, then braces himself and heads into the building. In the lobby, there’s a guy standing in front of the elevator doors. At first, Connor thinks he’s waiting for the elevator to arrive but it soon becomes clear that the asshole hasn’t even pushed the button. 

 

Connor lets out a sigh of frustration and hits the UP button. 

 

The guy next to him is radiating nervousness and Connor can’t quite shake the feeling that their paths have crossed before. 

 

Then again, with the days he’s had, who fucking knows. 

 

When the elevator dings, Connor gets into the elevator with the nervous guy and a bunch of others. Connor hits the button for floor twenty-two and notices as he did that the nervous-looking guy was about to do the same. 

 

Figures that this guy was heading to see a psychologist. He seems like a fucking wreck. 

 

Connor thinks to himself that if this guy had any idea what he’s been dealing with for the past… however long it’s been, he’d drop dead of shock. 

 

The guy slinks to the back of the elevator and Connor kind of hugs the wall. He’s never liked standing in the middle of an elevator. 

 

All of a sudden, the elevator stops. 

 

Fuck. 

 

Connor can’t help but feel a sense of resignation as the people around him start to freak the fuck out, because of-fucking-course. One lady is yelling about the broken cable and hitting the emergency button, someone else is screaming that they’re all going to die. 

 

Yup. 

 

Sounds about right. 

 

The elevator starts to beep. 

 

And then they’re moving. 

 

Plummeting toward the ground. 

 

At least this is a fucking new way to die. 

 

Everyone in the elevator is screaming and panicking, except the nervous guy at the back, which Connor has to admit he didn’t see coming. He’s not sure why, but for some reason, he makes his way toward him and nudges him. “Hey. Did you miss the memo? We’re gonna die in like three seconds.”

 

Like he really needs the reminder. Connor knows he’s an asshole. 

 

Nervous Guy shrugs. “It’s fine, honestly. I die all the time.”

 

Connor’s heart stops. He thinks he might be smiling. “Me too,” he confesses. 

 

As he speaks, he recognizes this guy’s face. 

 

Why does he recognize his face?

 

Something shifts in Nervous Guy’s expression. Connor can see recognition dawning. “Wait, you’re-”

 

The elevator crashes to the bottom of the shaft before he can finish his sentence. Connor can feel pain all through his body and a sickening thud and -

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

“Evan Hansen,” he says to himself as he finally, finally places the man in the elevator. “Evan fucking Hansen.”


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't get it back once you've lost it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for references to vomiting!

Evan found himself staring into the mirror, the sink running noisily, the sour taste of vomit filling his mouth. He had thrown up after waking up, he remembered, because his first waking thought was of the two hundred multiple choice questions he would spend the next day answering and then knowing that he had absolutely bombed all of the essay questions from this afternoon and he was definitely going to fail the bar which meant that he had failed he had utterly and completely failed and in failing had wasted approximately $300,430 on NYU Law and the bar fee and and the LSAT all of his stupid fucking hopes and dreams and his mom would be upset and his dad, who kept making big-shot lawyer jokes, wouldn’t be proud of him anymore and…

He thought he might throw up again. 

It didn’t matter how many times this happened, the stress of it all still got to him. There was no sense of calm or of resignation or surrender. Just pure, unadulterated stress…

He found himself heaving and had to take a big, vomit-scented breath to keep from throwing up again.  

Evan splashed cold water onto his face, cupped his hands to rinse his mouth, and shut off the water. Wasteful to leave it running. Wasteful. 

His phone started buzzing in his back pocket, but Evan ignored it. He knew it was his mother because it always was and she told him she would call when she got off of work to ask how today went, and like every time before Evan needed to put a few more minutes between stress vomiting and lying to his mother. He washed out his mouth with mouthwash because if you brushed your teeth right after throwing up, you could erode the enamel and once you lost enamel you could never get it back despite what Listerine tried to advertise. You couldn’t get it back once you lost it. 

Evan glanced quickly at the mirror. He had lines on his face from sleeping on the couch. His stomach still felt unsettled. Back in the living room, he hadn’t bothered to crack open a single textbook. He hadn’t bothered to study when he got home because the day had just been a lot so instead he had pulled out his phone and looked at facebook until he fell asleep, taking a long nap.

Depression naps, Sabrina had called them when they were together. Then she would start making noises about getting professional help and Evan would start drinking coffee when he got back from class, just to keep his eyes open no matter how tired he was, just to prove to her that he wasn’t depressed. 

His roommates were never home. Evan rarely saw them. They were doctors in the beginning of their residency. This place had started as a sublet last year when his roommates, Alex and Mattie, lost their third roommate to burnout. Charlie had also been a medical resident, but he cracked under the pressure of residency and moved back home to Iowa to live with his parents. And so Evan came to sublet this room in this apartment where his roommates were hardly home, and when they were, Evan wasn’t. Last he had seen Alex, she had offered to write him a prescription for Valium before leaving for the night shift. It had been longer since he had seen Mattie. Possibly years. Who knew anymore?

Evan pulled out his phone and went to his bedroom where there were law books stacked and piled neatly. He scrolled through facebook until he saw it, like always. Sabrina Patel is with Graham Smith. A banner announced that Sabrina Patel Got Engaged to Graham Smith.  A big colorful picture of her smile and then the glistening diamond engagement ring. Evan’s stomach did a flip. She had always wanted that whole thing, the engagement and a wedding and a happily ever after. She had always told him that. She got it now, apparently. With Graham Smith. 

He looked at the picture until his vision blurred, then agonized over whether or not he should like the photo. It didn’t seem to matter if he did or didn’t like it, in the aggregate, but he could never decide if liking it made him look bitter and petty or if he came across as genuinely happy for her. Would it be better or worse to comment below, “Congratulations!”? Would it matter? Probably not. 

Sabrina had been a great girlfriend, Evan couldn’t deny that. She was objectively great. Kind and quirky and a good kisser. She was understanding and sweet and made sure he always felt like he belonged. Belonged with her, belonged with the group of people they hung out with, even though they were all her friends, really. Sabrina made him feel safe, until she didn’t. Until he could tell she wanted more. More stability and more commitment and more out of life than Evan with his twitches and his fears and his stress vomiting could give her. Evan couldn’t be someone like Graham Smith, someone who could pick out a ring for a girl he loved and then actually give it to her. He couldn’t commit to putting that kind of thing out there in the universe because asking a question like that meant giving up control and Evan? He had to cling to whatever shred of control he had in this world. 

Especially now. 

His phone buzzed again, which meant it was time for Evan to answer and talk to his mom Heidi, who worried about him too much. He had tried before not to answer, but then there were voicemails and frantic texts and it was a lot easier if he just answered her calls. “Hi mom.”

His mother sounded breathless when she said, “Hi honey! I’ve been calling you for a couple of hours! How did it go today? You’ve been on my mind all day!”

“It was good,” He lied. Of all of the things he couldn’t do over, it  _ had _ to be this morning. Something he would actually want a chance to repeat. “Sorry, I uh. Some friends of mine from school and I went out for a drink, to, uh, celebrate being halfway there.”

“You did?” She sounded relieved. So heartbreakingly, bone crushingly relieved. “That’s great, sweetheart. I know this has got to be so stressful for you. I’m glad you have people who can commiserate.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you end up handwriting the test?” She had been looped into that particular decision making spiral: handwrite the test or register his laptop for it. He had gone back and forth on that one for literal weeks. In the end, Evan had missed the deadline to use his laptop because he kept imagining finishing the bar only to have the laptop stolen, only to be contacted by the exam board saying he was missing some of his essay questions and then having to sit the bar again in six months because he didn’t have the essay answers anymore and wasting $300,680. 

“Yeah, I decided to handwrite it. I think better with a pen than a keyboard anyway.”

“Make sure you get a good night’s sleep tonight,” His mom went on like he was sixteen instead of twenty six, like he had never taken an exam before, like he was entirely unprepared for this thing he had literally spent the last three years preparing for. Her confidence in him just seemed to slip a little more every time they talked. 

“I will.”

“How is everything going though, sweetheart? Have you heard back from any of the firms?”

He had a long, long list of places he would love to work if he could. But until he passed the bar he was sort of in legal limbo… literally. He had a J.D. and no license. He still had a part time gig as a paralegal which he had taken in December, something to help pay the bills while he waited to take the test. The firm was kind enough to grant him the entire week of the test off, knowing that he would probably be exhausted. It was sort of a bitter irony, seeing as his mom had worked for years to get certified as a paralegal back home, and for him it was a pathetic stop gap job he was wasting time doing while he waited for the state to let him be an official Attorney. 

“Still kind of waiting to hear anything official.”

“I still think it’s a little unfair that you have to wait.”

“It’s just how it goes,” He said, knowing how tired he probably sounded. 

“Well, I will let you go. I love you, Evan. I’m so proud of you.”

“Love you too,” He said and then they ended the call and he stared at the ceiling for a time before deciding he absolutely, one hundred percent could not stay here, in this room, for another second. He had to get out and go and do… something. This was starting to look like borderline bleak. Evan knew that it was bad. He had to go… somewhere. 

So Evan put on his jacket and hat. He waited around by the door for about five minutes because this was normally about the time when Mr. Abrahamson from downstairs got back from his AA meeting and the lock on the building stuck so Evan liked to open the door for him and tell him to have a good night. He usually said thank you and told Evan to have a good night as well and then Evan would feel like having interacted with a person in real life not on a screen made him less imaginary. Pulling his scarf tighter against his throat, Evan went for a little walk around the block in the cold, carefully avoiding bumping into anyone else or falling into an open manhole or whatever. He arrived at the liquor store determined that this time he wouldn’t waste his time, he would grab a bottle of the most affordable vodka and get the fuck out of there. 

He could do it. He could fix it. It wasn’t an impossible task, it was a very doable task. Walk in, grab vodka, pay, leave. He could do this. 

He kept telling himself so on the walk over. He could do this. Tonight would be different. Tonight was going to be an amazing night and here was why: he would buy some vodka, go home and have a drink, and then get a respectable eight hours of sleep. He would finish the bar exam tomorrow, and he would pass, and then he would be a real lawyer and he would finally live up to his potential and everything would be okay. 

Tonight would be a great night and here’s why…

Evan walked into the liquor store. It was deserted. The man behind the counter smiled at him like always, because he was courteous and professional, and Evan marched to the vodka bottles and grabbed the least expensive one that wasn’t actually a dressed up bottle of rubbing alcohol. He took it to the counter. 

The man behind the counter smiled at him. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” Evan said, lied. He tried again. “I’m in the middle of taking the bar exam and it sort of feels like today will never end,” He said with a little pathetic half laugh. 

The liquor store guy nodded vaguely. “A lawyer, huh?”

“That’s the plan.”

“What kind of lawyer?”

“A good one?” Evan joked. It fell flat. “I uh. I studied environmental law?”

The man behind the counter nodded. “Well good luck, man.”

“Thanks.”

Evan took his vodka in the brown paper bag and headed out the door. He would try to recycle the bag later. One more thing he had accomplished. Today was a good day, and here was why: he had gone to the liquor store and he hadn’t freaked out. He even made small talk with the cashier. Evan was on top of the fucking world. He was going to rock tomorrow. He was just getting too wrapped up in all of this, thinking he was stuck. He wasn’t stuck, he was just scared and fear wasn’t productive. No need to be scared. He was prepared. He had this, of course he had this. 

Evan clutched the vodka bottle and started to head back home, feeling like his head was a little clearly, less full of television static or the crackle of dial up internet. He and his mom were the last people in their hometown to switch to DSL, and Evan recalled being sort of embarrassed about that when he was in elementary school, afraid that admitting that his dad had left and taken their money with him would reveal too much to the kids he was desperate to play with on the playground. 

Evan waited to cross the street, looking both ways twice like you were supposed to do, checking and checking and checking for cars or busses or cyclists with death wishes. When he was absolutely positive that he was safe to cross the road, Evan did so. He made his way using careful, deliberate steps and once safely back inside his apartment, fixed himself a very strong drink and decided that this time around he would review Torts, even though he knew that he knew Torts, even though Torts was like the one thing Evan knew that he was going to ace on the test, but it made him feel like maybe his mom would be happy to know he was studying, even if he was doing it with a bottle of vodka at his side. 

Evan went to sleep around two in the morning even though a good night’s sleep was important before an exam because his brain just kept giving him newer, weirder, questions to consider and he woke up at four in the morning because he was having a nightmare about Oliver Wendell Holmes. He wrapped himself up tightly in his blankets, trying to compress himself and force his nervous system to calm down and eventually found himself staring blankly at the wall closest to his bed, watching the shadows change as the sun rose. 

His eyes itched and his nose felt weirdly cold, but when Evan’s alarm went off at six forty five, he got up. He brushed his teeth. He washed his face. He realized that he stunk of vodka and had a fast (but not too fast) shower. Evan carefully applied a second coat of antiperspirant (you were supposed to apply it the night before or it wouldn’t activate in time but Evan was cautious and aware that he could smell otherwise). He got dressed in comfortable but nice jeans and a polo and triple checked the time before heading out the door. 

Evan lit a cigarette. A nasty, nasty habit. He picked it up in law school. Everyone smoked, even the other environmental students, because nicotine was sometimes the only thing that worked better than caffeine during long days, and he kept saying he would quit after the bar and honestly he had died so many times without even bothering to smoke so whatever. He was so exhausted he figured he could justify it today. He smoked over a garbage can and deposited the butt in it when he had finished, careful to avoid letting any ashes spill onto the sidewalk, and then headed off. 

He got on his bus at exactly 7:30, and arrived at the testing center at 8:34, which meant he had just enough time to pee, drop off his phone and his jacket in the Personal Belongings Room, and head into the examination room. 

Should he be worried that the exam had changed just a little? He vividly remembered his first go around having been stumped by the first question on Constitutional Law but this time he breezed through it. 

After several agonizing hours hunching over his exam papers, the proctor called time and released them all for lunch with specific instructions to return by 2:00pm. Evan’s eyes itched. He had a stomach ache. He was absolutely exhausted. He should grab some coffee. 

Evan stopped himself in the middle of a thought spiral somewhere along the lines of “birth is a curse and existence is a never ending prison” because frankly, where was that even going to get him? 

Fuck. Fuck the fucking bar exam. This whole thing was making him nuts. 

Evan stepped outside after waiting nearly thirty minutes to retrieve his jacket and phone. His mom had texted him to wish him luck. 

Evan also had a text from Sabrina. 

He felt his stomach drop. 

_ “Thank you for the facebook comment. It really means a lot from you. I’m in the city until this weekend! We should catch up!” _

Had he left her a facebook comment? Did he even want to catch up with Sabrina? The idea of making it closer to the weekend was laughable, so much so that he was still chuckling when he started down the street to a nearby deli. Catching up with Sabrina? That was fucking impossible because if he tried she would be able to see every little thing that was wrong with him from a mile off, she would say things like “you need to talk to a professional about this” which would be utterly mortifying, and she would want to talk about Graham and how he was the greatest thing since sliced bread probably and Evan didn’t have it in him to fake enthusiasm for her upcoming wedding.

He was just about to text her back, to tell her that actually, he was taking the bar this week, and actually, he didn’t especially feel like catching up when something hard and heavy crashed into his head. His vision blurred, a mixture of potting soil and shattered terra cotta flashing in front of his eyes as his knees gave out. 

Evan watched blood pool on the sidewalk around him, the crumbled and dried corpse of a spider plant next to his elbow, disgusted, because who left a flower pot out on the middle of fucking winter?

And then he was in the bathroom and his mouth tasted like vomit and the sink was running. 


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't be a lawyer.

Evan grimaced at his reflection, frustrated, and shut off the water. Rinsed his mouth with mouthwash. Ignored his phone ringing and walked to his bedroom where he wrote “Congratulations! So happy for you!” under the picture of Sabrina Patel’s engagement ring. When his mom called back he answered but kept the conversation short, saying he was tired and needed a good night’s sleep before he took the rest of the exam tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. 

“Baby, is everything alright?” His mom asked. 

“I don’t know,” He said honestly. “I hope so. I think it’s just… stress about the bar.”

“You know I’m here,” She said. “If you want to talk. I’ll listen. No matter what, okay? I’ll be here.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Except he didn’t. Because in high school she missed the signs until it was too late and he was broken like his arm. Because she worked too much and was never home and missed parent teacher conferences and meetings with guidance counselors but left him notes on the fridge and sent him sweet texts and cared, really cared, even if she was never actually there. 

Evan hung up the phone before she could try to reassure him anymore because it just made him feel a bit nauseated. And a bit nauseous. He was both. 

He debated grabbing another nap but his restlessness go the better of him. Evan got out of bed and checked the time. He rushed down the steps (carefully, though, always carefully) to get to the door and open it for Mr. Abrahamson. 

Mr. Abrahamson smiled appreciatively. “Thank you.”

Evan nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Mr. Abrahamson’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he was thinking, and then he said, “You live with those two doctors, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“They’re nice girls. Brought me antibiotics when I caught a chest cold over New Years. You dating one of them?”  
Evan shook his head. “I just finished law school, a-actually. I’m taking the bar? Finishing it tomorrow, actually, yeah.”

“Busy then!” Mr. Abrahamson said, smiling. “Busy, busy! You’ll find time to date soon. You’re a nice kid. You’ll find someone nice.”

Evan felt his face flush a bit. “Thanks.”

“The bar exam, eh?” Mr. Abrahamson said. “Don’t let me scare you kid, but I think that exam is what drove me to drink.”

Evan smiled awkwardly. Like he wasn’t on his way out to buy liquor. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

“See, you’re a nice kid. Don’t be a lawyer, kid, it’ll beat the nice out of you.” He clapped Evan on the shoulder and headed inside. Evan waved after him, watching until the old man made his way to the elevator doors. And then he set off toward the liquor store, planning to go and buy himself something cheap and strong so he could shake off the buzzy, annoying sense of impending failure. 

Evan walked so purposefully to the vodka bottles that the cashier at the liquor store looked up from his book in surprise. 

“Hey,” Evan said. 

“How’s it going?”

Evan shook his head. “My ex just got engaged and my mom is worried about me and yesterday I fucked up tomorrow.”

The cashier blinked in surprise. It was probably the most Evan had ever spoken in front of him despite having been something of a regular shopper over the past year.

“It’s just. Weird night, man,” Evan tried to explain.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks,” Evan said, collecting his bottle and heading out into the night. It felt colder than it usually did, and Evan went to wrap his arms across his middle while he waited to cross the street when he heard someone behind him scream and then a horrible screech of steel as a bus with Alana Beck’s face on it flipped onto its side and plowed directly into him. It lasted only for a few seconds, the literal bone crushing pain of his ribs and arms and pelvis breaking, blood hot and wet spurting out of major arteries,  _ Alana Beck For Community Board!  _ probably collapsing his ribs and then.

Evan found himself staring at the mirror in his bathroom. His mouth tasted like vomit. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself. 

_ Again?  _

_ Fuck _ , this was bullshit. 

Evan shut off the sink. Washed his mouth out with mouthwash, ignored the phone call from his mom. Threw himself down on his bed and let out a strangled yell, knowing he should be debating if he should like Sabrina’s fucking engagement fucking photo where she looked all goddamn happy without him. 

“FUCK!” Evan shouted, rolling over onto his back. 

So much for that fucking plan. 

He rubbed a hand over his face, frustrated, and then turned his phone off when his mom called back again. 

The first time this happened, he had been utterly convinced that he actually cracked, lost his mind, crumpled under the pressure of the bar exam, that Sabrina was right and he needed help. 

But now it was extremely obvious that this was a situation beyond help. 

The internet suggested that Evan was stuck in a temporal loop, but the wikipedia page mostly just referenced works of fiction. Not a lot of help. 

Evan was stuck here, on this day, forever. He knew that. He just didn’t know why. 

It felt like punishment. 

This was… eternal punishment. Or a really fucking awful remake of  _ Groundhog Day.  _ Bill Murray at least got the girl and, like, learned to speak French. All Evan had accomplished was living long enough to sit the second half of the bar a few times. Once he had been thrown out of the exam entirely, because Evan had just sat there, staring at the questions as they piled up in front of his eyes, unable to answer a single question. Apparently, that was in violation of the New York Bar Exam Board’s explicit rule that you had to at least try to pass. 

If Evan believed in Hell, which he didn’t because he was raised Jewish and there wasn’t exactly a consensus on whether or not there was a morality based reward or punishment system in the teachings he remembered from being a kid, this would probably be it. Relieving the bar exam. Relieving that stress and tension, experiencing nothing but that constant fear of tipping over into the abyss, of tumbling into insanity. 

Because this was his worst nightmare. This glaringly obvious sign that there was No Fixing This, whatever This was. He couldn’t willpower himself out of this. It didn’t matter if he managed to pass the bar on the first try and get a job at an impressive firm working on environmental cases and genuinely saved the planet from global warming because his brain was broken, was trying to destroy him, and it was taking pleasure in the process. 

It had occurred to Evan that maybe he had just snapped, like a tree branch unfit to hold his weight, that all of the careful lies he told himself had collapsed beneath him, and this entire experience was nothing more than the hallucinatory experiences of a madman being sedated up to the eyes at Bellevue. 

But that fell apart like all of his other far fetched theories, like this was a glitch in the Matrix or a nightmare but he couldn’t wake up. When scrutinized even in the slightest, it seemed like a convenient fiction. Something he could tell himself as a comfort while he was doomed to relive and re-die during the worst fucking twenty-four hour period in his entire life. 

That night, Evan didn’t let Mr. Abrahamson inside or answer his mom’s calls or like Sabrina’s engagement photo. He didn’t study or even bother to water his plants because if he made it through tomorrow he would be impressed. 

Since apparently nothing mattered and he was clearly losing his fucking mind, Evan figured he might as well take advantage. So he ordered pizza and turned on  _ Planet Earth  _ while he waited for it to be delivered. He changed into his saddest looking but most comfortable sweats and decided not to give a fuck when the delivery person came to the door. He tipped the girl $50 and closed the door without saying anything. Evan ate half of a pizza in bed in front of his laptop, thinking that he should have done this ages ago. Just given up and let himself relax. 

...But it turned out that relaxing was sort of boring.  _ Planet Earth  _ wasn’t really capturing his attention. Evan started to doubt this grand plan, started itching to get out and do something even though he would definitely die if he left this apartment before the sun came up. 

He needed to clear his mind. 

He…

Well on a moral level, Evan wasn’t exact in favor of porn. Because a lot of it exploited vulnerable populations and glorified violence and when he and Sabrina were together they agreed that an important thing for them as a couple was to avoid porn unless they could be absolutely certain it was produced ethically. 

But honestly, if he was already in hell, who really cared? Like genuinely he was already suffering the worst possible consequence of living an immoral life so in the grand scheme of things, watching some porn probably didn’t matter. 

He clicked around for a while because when you didn’t regularly watch porn, it was sort of hard to figure out where you should even start. Eventually he settled on something produced by a company called Cocky Boys, and assuming he didn’t decide to mess around with like autoerotic asphyxiation, it seemed unlikely that he would die if he jerked off. 

A few times. 

Like. Whatever. He was bored and he was dying so. Whatever. 

Evan opened his eyes when a bright light woke him up. He had passed out in front of his laptop. The battery had died. He groaned and checked the time. 

It was after 8:45 am. 

He had made it through the night, though he definitely wasn’t taking the bar again today. Even if he wanted, there was no way he could make it there in fifteen minutes. Evan figured skipping it once in a while wasn’t so bad, all things considered. If he never even made it to the end of the week, did it really matter if he wasn’t a lawyer?

He stretched and pulled himself out of bed, heading to the bathroom to pee and shower and brush his teeth. He hadn’t showered the last few times, and it was sort of relaxing to be able to rinse of the days and days and days. He washed his hair and brushed his teeth and wrapped himself up in a towel, heading to his bedroom. 

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

Evan jumped so hard he nearly lost his grip on his towel and showed his junk off to Alex, who was standing in the kitchen in her scrubs, elbow deep in a box of Cinnamon Life. “ALEX HOLY SHIT.”

“Dude,” She said, laughing now while Evan clutched his chest and tried to keep from showing off his entire dick to his roommate. “Shouldn’t you be, like, taking the bar right now? Like… literally?”

Evan laughed nervously because right, right, right he was skirting his responsibilities but he had somehow forgotten about other people. Right. Fuck. “Oh well I mean… I already took the bar today like two days ago and I’ll take it again tomorrow so.”

“....Right,” Alex said around a mouthful of cereal. “I should go to bed.”

“Probably,” Evan said, nodding. 

“By the way, I left that script for Valium for you on the fridge. I know you said you don’t need it but maybe I need you to have it.”

“Th-thanks.”

Alex blinked a few times. “Don’t take this the wrong way, dude, but you’re… hotter than I expected. Under all those polos.”

“Thank you?” 

“Don’t mention it.” Alex retreated to her room, still shoving handfuls of dry cereal into her mouth. 

Evan let out a relieved breath. Maybe it was for the best that he lived with people who when he did cross paths with them were so exhausted that the nonsense psychobabble he spewed didn’t really register. 

Evan went back into to his bedroom and somewhat spitefully pulled a polo over his head. He went and found his phone, switching it on and seeing that he had no less than fifteen voicemails from his mother. There were also thirty texts. 

Evan couldn’t look at them without feeling a swooping sense of guilt, so instead he went to his browser and started googling psychologists in his area because. 

Okay. 

Maybe it was time to admit defeat. Maybe it was time to admit that his mom had been right in high school, that Dr. Sherman and his whole “Dear Evan Hansen today is going to be a good day” bullshit wasn’t so bullshit, like maybe it was all real and he was the one who was wrong about everything, maybe Sabrina hadn’t been wrong and it was time to just… talk to someone. 

Wasn’t the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results? Or something? 

Evan had obviously cracked. 

It was time to give up the ghost, admit that he was fucking wrong, and go… to the first listing for someone who had availability today. He called, which was amazing because he usually could only make phone calls if they were work related. He could call to check court dates and confirm witnesses and even confirm fucking Richard from the firm’s stupid date with the guy at the bookstore, but calling to make any sort of mental health appointment was really something very far out of his usual depth. But he did it. 

“We have an opening at 10:00 o’clock,” The soothing voice of the receptionist said. “I know that’s a little tight on time, but -”

“I’ll be there.” It was better that he couldn’t just change his mind.

“Okay, so we’re on the twenty second floor. Just come to the reception desk and give them your name.”

He plugged the address into the phone and bundled himself in his coat, rehearsing what he would say on the walk over.

_ Hi I’m Evan and I’m trapped in a time loop _ was going to get him immediately committed. 

_ Hi, I’m Evan, and I’m supposed to be taking the bar exam but I keep dying _ would too. 

Fuck. 

_ Hi I’m Evan and the universe is literally trying to kill me what do I do? _

_ Hi I’m Evan and I am Jewish so I don’t think I believe in the Christian concept of purgatory but do you think that I might be in it right now anyway?  _

_ Hi I’m Evan and I think I am losing touch with reality  _ might be about right. He could start there and get into specifics, maybe, if whoever he talked to didn’t tranquilize him immediately. 

Evan arrived with ten minutes to spare, which meant he had plenty of time to hyperventilate in front of the elevator. He just stood there, his breath ragged like he had run here, like he was a fish yanked suddenly out of the water, like he was having an asthma attack or heart attack or panic attack, staring at the buttons in front of him, unable to make himself actually push one. He couldn’t do this. Of course Evan couldn’t do this. He had  _ never _ been able to do this. There was no fixing him which was why on his eighteenth birthday Evan had told his mom he wouldn’t be seeing Dr. Sherman anymore, why he drank coffee in the afternoon all through undergrad, why he lied to Sabrina and insisted he was fine, he was always fine. Because he couldn’t actually admit that he wasn’t. That was too much, too hard, too painful. To face that there was never going to a moment where he wasn’t just like this. 

Evan stared and stared and stared at the doors of the elevator. He didn’t move for a long time, and eventually a man with long hair sighed this frustrated sigh next to him before leaning over and pressing the UP button impatiently. Evan thought, irritated, that the man looked familiar but he didn’t know why.

The elevator dinged, and Evan and the impatient man stepped inside the car along with a few other people who had accumulated in the lobby. Evan reached over to press the button for floor twenty-two, but the man had already stabbed it with one of his long fingers. Evan stepped back, all the way to the back of the elevator, as the doors closed and the car began to climb. 

Somewhere after the elevator indicated that they had zoomed past floor fifteen everything came to a very sudden, jerking stop. 

Evan felt his heart rate pick up as the random people in the elevator around him began to panic. One of the women shouted that the cable had broken and slammed the emergency button. Another person began to scream that they were all going to die. Evan opened to his mouth to say that modern elevators had so many safety mechanisms in place that they would be fine. There was no way they would fall, they would be fine, really or else the owners of this building were going to lose millions in a wrongful death suit, and nobody wanted that on their hands so they had absolutely one hundred percent inspected the elevators and all of the elevator failsafes.

But then suddenly the elevator began to beep frantically and plummet.

“Fuck,” Evan said as the people around him all started to scream and panic. He just stared ahead, because of course this was how it happened today.

“Hey.” The long haired impatient guy from the lobby had nudged him. He seemed pretty unaffected, considering the circumstances. “Did you miss the memo? We’re gonna die in like three seconds.”

Evan shrugged, resigned. “It’s fine, honestly. I die all the time.”   


The long haired man’s face twisted quizzically as he said, “Me too.”

In the remaining second or so, Evan finally placed his familiar looking face. Connor Murphy. They had gone to high school together. He had signed Evan’s cast senior year. “Wait, you’re-”

But then the elevator crashed into the bottom of the elevator shaft, a loud and painful clatter and Evan felt his legs break and then his head hit the ceiling.

 

And then Evan was in his bathroom with the sink running, and his mouth tasted like vomit. 


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That damn camping hedgehog.

Just because Connor’s figured out it was Evan Hansen in the elevator doesn’t mean he has any more of an idea about what the fuck is going on.

 

But he can’t shake the feeling that this is important, somehow.

 

_“It’s fine, honestly. I die all the time.”_

 

If that means what Connor thinks it means…

 

Then he’s not alone in this.

 

It isn’t just him.

 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and stares at it for a while, trying to figure out a way to get hold of Evan Hansen.

 

Connor sighs.

 

He’s going to have to reinstall Facebook.

 

He navigates his way to the App Store and finds the Facebook app in a matter of seconds. There it is with that dumb cloud icon.

 

Connor deleted his Facebook account just after college, mostly because no one he actually hung out with used it and he was never really one for social media. The main reason he deleted it was because, in a moment of madness after his parents’ divorce, he accepted a friend request from his mom.

 

Rookie mistake.

 

He promptly found his feed full of bullshit affirmations badly typeset over pictures of sunsets, photos of tiny animals and links to articles about essential oils, hydrotherapy and chakras.

 

The tiny pigs wearing tiny boots were fucking adorable, as was that damn camping hedgehog, but that’s beside the point.

 

Bye bye, Facebook.

 

Hopefully it’s not too hard to make a new profile. Fuck. There’s probably going to be a lot of fucking around with setting it up.

 

Oh well. He can just put in whatever. It’s not like it’ll matter once he dies again anyway.

 

The download finishes quickly. He opens the app and it asks him for his password and…

 

There it is. His Facebook page from six years ago, staring right back at him.

 

So much for deleting his account. Connor guesses that it’s true - the Internet is forever.

 

His profile picture is of a bong.

 

He lets out a chuckle.

 

It’s still kinda funny.

 

The banging on the door gets louder and faster and someone’s yelling for him to hurry up, which is new.

 

Connor rolls his eyes and heads to the door to find the girl with pink hair is seriously pissed off. She calls him an asshole, then pushes past him and slams the door behind him and it actually catches part of his sleeve in the door. He yanks it out quickly, a little annoyed, but mostly thinking that her reaction is fair enough. He was probably in there for awhile.

 

Then again, what is ‘awhile’ in the grand scheme of things?

 

He heads to the kitchen, for lack of anything better to do.

 

“Welcome to the 27 Club!”

 

“Thanks,” Connor says. “Hey, how do you search for people on Facebook again?”

 

Andi looks puzzled. “Since when do you have Facebook?”

 

“I used to have an account,” Connor explains, “but I deleted it after college. Well, I thought I did. Anyway, it’s back and I’m trying to find someone.”

 

“You probably just deactivated it,” Andi says, pulling a joint out of her bra. She presents it with a flourish. “Here. A birthday present for you.”

 

Connor looks at the joint carefully for a moment.

 

Figures he may as well.

 

“Got a light?”

 

As Andi fumbles around in a drawer next to the oven, Connor pushes the little magnifying glass and starts typing in Evan Hansen’s name.

 

The top result looks like the one. There’s a professional looking profile photo where Evan’s in a dress shirt and tie. It says he’s studying law at NYU.

 

Connor and Evan have seventeen mutual friends.

 

Including Connor’s sister.

 

Connor has a weird, unsettling flashback to high school.

 

_Because there’s Zoe. And all my hope is pinned on Zoe. Who I don’t even know, and doesn’t know me. But maybe if I did. Maybe if I could just talk to her, then maybe… maybe nothing would be different at all._

 

He can remember holding a piece of paper in his hand, reading the words and feeling his chest get tighter and his blood get hotter and being so sure in that moment that Evan Hansen had written this letter to fuck with him.

 

Connor remembers rereading the letter later that night.

 

Over and over again.

 

Every time, it had made his stomach go cold.

 

A few months later, he’d fished the letter out from underneath his mattress and ripped it in half, then in half again, and again and again, until it was in tiny pieces, then thrown those pieces out the window like the world’s most depressing confetti.

 

That was a long time ago.

 

The Evan in the photo looks confident. Successful.

 

Miles away from the nervous wreck in the elevator.

 

Connor clicks on Evan’s profile. Most of it is set to private, but there’s a public post about preparing for the bar exam and he thinks to himself that his dad would fucking love this guy.

 

There’s an option to send a message, so Connor clicks it, and it goes to a pop-up where he has to download another app for it, which is bullshit, but this is important so what the fuck, right?

 

Once he’s finally got Messenger installed, he looks at the blank conversation thread and tries to figure out what to say.

 

It takes him a few minutes, but he eventually settles on an opening line.

 

**Did you die in an elevator tomorrow?**

 

Connor stares at the screen for a moment.

 

No response.

 

There’s a notification saying that Evan’s seen the fucking message, but…

 

No response.

 

“Connor. Earth to Connor.”

 

He looks up to see Andi waving a box of matches in his face. “Sorry,” he says, and takes them from her carefully. He puts his phone in his pocket, lights the joint and takes a hit.

 

“Who were you trying to find?” Andi asks.

 

Connor shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

Andi looks at him, then shrugs. “Okay.” Her eyes light up as she looks across the room, and Connor’s pretty sure she’s spotted Zoe.

 

“What did Zoe say when you invited her?” Connor asks, despite it being the absolute last thing he should be asking.

 

Andi looks a little guilty. “That you probably didn’t want her here, but she’d think about it.”

 

Connor follows Andi’s gaze to where Zoe’s talking with some guy from the bookstore. “I do want her here,” he says quietly. “It’s just… it’s not always easy.”

 

“Siblings never are,” Andi says, with the tone of someone who is passing down ancient wisdom, despite only being six months older than Connor.

 

“She broke up with her boyfriend,” Connor blurts out.

 

“Reeeeeaaaally?” says Andi, obviously interested in this tidbit of information. “So she’s on the market.”

 

“It literally just happened an hour ago,” Connor clarifies.

 

“So what you’re saying is she might be after some rebound sex.”

 

Connor wrinkles up his nose. “Gross.”

 

“Hey, Blossom wants what she wants,” says Andi, and Connor does not want to hear his roommate talk about her vagina ever again.

 

With that, Andi puts down the dough she’s kneading and heads across the room in Zoe’s direction. Connor watches as Andi gives Zoe a tight hug and they start talking, the guy from the bookstore dissolving into the crowd.

 

_If I could just talk to her, then maybe…_

 

_Maybe nothing would be different at all._

 

Connor takes the opportunity to go to his room, where Margot and Eddie are snorting something off his Bachelor’s degree. He remembers his thought from last time.

 

“What’s this?” he asks, gesturing to the crushed up pills on the frame.

 

“Oxy,” says Margot matter-of-factly.

 

“Right,” says Connor, figuring that settles that, and takes the rolled up dollar bill from Eddie.

 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and sees that Evan’s finally fucking responded.

 

**Yes.**

  


Connor replies instantly.

 

**Okay.**

**We should talk.**

  


* * *

 

 

Evan stared at the bathroom mirror, shocked. Like he felt genuinely like he had been zapped by a bolt of lightning. It took him a minute to remember to turn off the faucet, to rinse the taste of vomit out of his mouth.

Connor Murphy was on that elevator, and Connor Murphy said he died all of the time and Connor Murphy had signed Evan’s cast when he was seventeen years old and had no real friends and no real hope for the future and then he stole Evan’s therapy letter and Evan had walked around school for two weeks with a dull stomach ache absolutely certain that Jared was right and any minute now Connor Murphy would use that letter to blackmail or torture or humiliate Evan, any minute now.

It never happened.

And the stomach ache turned out to be an ulcer from taking too many ibuprofen after he broke his arm in the park.

And Evan could almost, almost forget most days until he spotted Connor Murphy in the halls and felt his insides seize with fear, preparing for a blow that never landed.

Evan’s phone started to buzz in his pocket. He took it out and stared at it, his mom’s smiley face lighting up the screen, reminding himself that absolutely nothing had changed just because he had died with Connor Murphy from high school in an elevator. All it meant was that he had skipped the bar for nothing and he probably needed to brush up on criminal law because he did need to know it for the bar and sometimes environmental cases did go into criminal courts and it would behoove him to study, really, because he had to take the bar exam tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

His phone quit buzzing and Evan headed for his bedroom and pulled out his notebook from the study group he had attended once a week from January first on, saying little but writing a lot. He was a better writer than a talker, which he knew didn’t sound especially lawyerly, but he could talk and talk and talk if he gave himself time to write out what to say and practice it until he couldn’t be nervous because he knew it backwards, forwards, inside and out.

Like he knew these days, these resets, these loops. Backwards forwards and inside out. He would stay here, talk to his mom, comment on Sabrina’s photo, go out and buy liquor and pretend that was unrelated to Sabrina’s photo, and if he was lucky he’d live until morning and sit the bar exam again. He knew this. He had learned this. He had always learned best by repetition, his mom taught him multiplication using flashcards and that was how he got through undergrad and law school, with flashcards and repetition and once he made a stupid mistake he never made it again because Evan learned he always learned and fixed it because if he didn’t-

His phone buzzed once.

Evan stared at it.

The banner said he had a facebook message from Connor Murphy.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

_“Did you die in an elevator tomorrow?”_

He just stared at his phone until the screen went dim.

So. Right. Okay.

Evan tried to make sense of that information.

He figured, really, that was just a sign that he was Officially Crazy. Like his brain had generated an imaginary friend to have in all of this nonsense, and for reasons Evan would never quite understand, gave him the face of a random person he had attended high school with, probably because his own brain was an asshole and would give him an imaginary friend who was violent and paranoid.

Sounded legit.

The other possibility, that this was real and it was happening and another human person, another living breathing thinking feeling human was going through this insanity was just too far fetched to accept.

Evan ignored the message, choosing instead to call his mom back. He tried to make his voice sound appropriately optimistic and cheerful when she asked where he had been when she had tried to call.

“Sorry, I uh, didn’t pick up right away. Some friends of mine from school and I went out for a drink, to, uh, celebrate being halfway there.”

She sounded so tickled, so thrilled, and Evan wondered if it got better or worse each time he heard that brittle optimism in her voice. If it was reassuring or damning. He wondered what would happen if he went to the airport and tried to get on a flight and see his mom, if the plane would crash land or he would be sucked out the window or miss a step when crossing the threshold of the plane’s door and cracking his skull on the tarmac.

It was stupid to indulge this line of thinking. He’d never get there. And if somehow he did, Evan doubted he would know what to say. He had stopped telling his mom the truth a long time ago, back when a few maiden lies slipped out so easily it felt predestined… “Oh I fell when I was climbing a tree, you see” followed by “Oh Connor’s my, uh. He’s my friend. We have English together.” Small lies that kept her happy and in the dark that never seemed significant until right fucking now when she was wishing him luck for the twelfth time.

When they hung up, Evan opened the message from Connor again.

Maybe an imaginary friend was something. Worst case, he’d just die again. He could pretend it never even happened.

So Evan typed back, _“Yes.”_

Connor replied very fast, especially for a person who had a bong as a profile picture, _“Okay. We should talk.”_

_“Fine.”_

Connor’s next message surprised Evan greatly. _“I’m at my birthday party in the East Village. Meet me here.”_ He followed it with an address.

Evan was not under any circumstances going to go to a fucking birthday party of a perfect stranger, time loops or no time loops. He had to take the bar tomorrow. He couldn’t just crash a party in the East Village to go meet his new imaginary friend. That would be crazy and Evan really, really needed to hang on to any shred of evidence where he wasn’t just totally batshit crazy. 

He shot back a response, saying, _“I don’t really… do parties.”_

Connor replied quickly, _“Really? You want to discuss our recurring deaths on facebook where the FBI or whatever could be reading this?”_

Evan let out a laugh, a hysterical, crazy sounding laugh because well… his new hallucinatory friend had a point. If by chance the government was somehow reading these messages, he was pretty much fucked if he actually wanted to work as an attorney. People who thought they were dying all the time did not make good legal counsel.

_“Look it doesn’t have to be the party, but we should talk about this.”_

Evan took a gulp of air, trying to get his brain to focus, trying to ground himself, focus, do something, _Today is going to be a good day and here’s why…_

He shook his head. Looked down at his phone. _“Fine. Can we meet somewhere else though? There’s a diner not far from your place.”_

_“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Try not to die on your way there.”_

Evan frowned at that message, but he didn’t waste time on trying to decipher any meaning from his new hallucinatory symptoms, instead putting his jacket on and heading out the door. He checked his watch, realizing with a bit of a frown that he must have missed Mr. Abrahamson, because he didn’t see him shuffling toward the door on his way out.

Weird.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is fiscally irresponsible to order scrambled eggs at a restaurant.

Evan started walking toward the diner, head down against the wind, wishing he had thought to wear a better hat, not this cheap thing he had bought at H&M several years ago because Sabrina told him it was cute.

He managed not to die on his way to the diner, making his way inside and finding Connor Murphy already in a booth, hands cupped around a coffee mug.

Evan tried to smile because that was what you did if you were meeting a person in real life, and even though that was absolutely not happening, Evan still tried to put on his polite face because it seemed like the correct thing to do when dealing with his brain misfiring in such Fun and Interesting new ways.

Evan slid into the booth, trying to keep the smile up, and said, “Hi.”

A moment later, a plate of scrambled eggs arrived in the hands of a waiter who looked extremely over his job. “Thanks,” Connor mumbled, digging in right away. Scrambled eggs was such a waste to order, Evan found himself thinking. He could scramble an egg, and Evan was notoriously useless in the kitchen. It was frankly just fiscally irresponsible to order scrambled eggs at a restaurant.

“Did you want anything?” The waiter asked, giving Evan a dirty look. He had been staring at the eggs, so transfixed, that he had momentarily forgotten where he was.

“Uh. Could I get a black tea and…?” He glanced quickly at the menu in front of him. “A cup of chicken soup, please? Thank you.”

The waiter walked away, and then Evan was forced to take in his strange new hallucination who was eating scrambled eggs. He could be certain that this was not real because in high school Connor Murphy never looked this put together. Whenever Evan had the misfortune to cross his path in high school, Connor always looked… Angry. Like anger radiated out through his split ends and graying hoodies and scuffed up Army Surplus boots.

This Connor, imaginary friend Connor, was dressed like a hipster. He had a sweater on, one that looked nice and warm and fashionably grandfather-like. There was a jacket on the seat beside him, one that was both stylish and weather appropriate. This in particular stood out to Evan because Connor Murphy from high school never wore a jacket in winter, much to Evan’s dismay. After their little computer lab interaction, Evan had been so convinced that somehow that letter was going to turn up and ruin his life that he started to imagine doomsday scenario after doomsday scenario, including one where Connor froze to death after going out in the cold without a jacket, and his family found that note in his things, and (wrongfully) assumed that Connor and Evan were friends and assumed that his death was a suicide, and then Evan cracked under the pressure of Connor’s grieving family’s belief in their best friendship so he started to wildly invent lies and eventually his reputation as the dead kid’s friend went viral and then the Murphys began to get hate mail from people who thought they had killed their kid and it was all Evan and his stupid letter’s fault.

When he had expressed this fear to Dr. Sherman, his therapist had smiled kindly and asked Evan if he had ever considered writing fiction. “You have a wonderful imagination. Maybe you could channel it toward something productive.”

Fat chance.

Evan’s Imaginary Connor was eating his plate of eggs like eggs were about to be banned, like he hadn’t eaten in weeks… and maybe he hadn’t. His hallucination had said he was dying all the time. Maybe eating wasn’t part of his routine.

“So…” Evan said because the silence other than the sounds of Connor Murphy chewing was starting to get to him. Connor looked up, waiting. “Did you know Alana Beck was running for community board?” Evan heard himself say.

“I know,” Connor said, slowly chewing and swallowing. “I was hit by a bus with her face on it.”

Evan laughed a little nervously because, okay, they were just cutting right to the chase, sure, great, made sense really that he would have a no-nonsense imaginary friend, really, because why would a hallucination want to beat around the bush and make small talk? “Right,” he said, nodding, and then the bored waiter brought his tea and his soup and Evan stared at his mug because well. He had done his part. Connor was the one who wanted to talk and he wasn’t saying anything so Evan was just. Going to look at his tea and wait.

Only Evan was a terrible waiter so he just sort of blurted out, “So, why do you think this is happening?” He took a breath. “Because I have no idea but I’m like 99% sure I am just straight up imagining all of this, genuinely, like this is probably just a stress reaction to taking the bar and a little too much Adderall, right? If I was hallucinating you, you would have to tell me wouldn’t you?”

 

* * *

 

It’s weird.

 

Connor remembers that Evan was really quiet in high school, but it’s only now that he’s listening to him talk that he remembers just how much he could ramble when he got going.

 

He stabs the last blob of egg on his plate and goes to put it in his mouth, before realizing exactly what it is that Evan’s implying.

 

He chews, swallows and looks Evan dead in the eye.

 

“Wait, you think I’m a hallucination?”

 

Evan blinks.

 

“Uh. Yes. Yes, that is exactly what I think.”

 

“Huh,” says Connor, putting his cutlery carefully on his plate. “Wow. Rude.”

 

He feels a little better having eaten something. Eggs had honestly seemed like the safest bet - soft enough so that there was minimal risk of choking but still substantial enough that they’d fill him up, because who the fuck knows when he’ll get to eat next?

 

Maybe he should, like, make sure his first stop on this weird repeating day is to grab one of Andi’s homemade granola bars and keep it in his pocket for emergencies.

 

Evan’s staring at him, his face turning a little bit red, like he’s trying to figure out what to say next. Connor’s not really sure what to say next, either - this whole situation is completely fucking insane - but he’s probably going to have to be the one to talk otherwise Evan Hansen’s head might literally explode, right in front of him, and if he and Evan just died together in an elevator and are the only people who seem to remember that they’ve lived this day before, then maybe they’re linked and if Evan’s head explodes, then Connor’s will, too.

 

“Okay,” he says finally. “So. Counting the elevator, I have died… twelve times, I think.” He thinks back, trying to confirm. “First it was the Alana bus, then the stairs, then I got crushed by a bookshelf, then the stairs, then the stairs again, then I fell down a manhole, then I think I froze to death, then the stairs again, then my phone charger electrocuted me, then I choked on some garlic bread, then the stairs yet again, then the elevator.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “That’s twelve, right?”

 

“It is,” Evan confirms. He’s frowning, and the previous redness in his face is fading to pale and it dawns on Connor that while he’s clearly older, Evan doesn’t actually look that different from how he did in high school.

 

He’d always seemed kind of nervous and tired and twitchy and that doesn’t seem to have changed.

 

“So what about you?” Connor asks. “How many times have you died?”

 

“Twelve,” Evan replies instantly.

 

He doesn’t elaborate.

 

Maybe Evan thinks it’s morbid to list all his deaths.

  
Doesn’t mean Connor’s not curious.

 

“Anything particularly memorable?” he asks.

 

Evan laughs. It’s short and it’s sharp and it’s definitely not a “haha funny” kind of laugh. From the look on his face, he didn’t do it on purpose. After a moment, he replies. “Well, I’ve fallen a lot. Couple of manholes, sidewalk cellars. One time a flowerpot killed me.” It’s Connor’s turn to laugh. It’s a short, choking sound he tries to swallow. Evan’s expression twists a little, like he’s finally seeing the morbid humor in the whole situation. “Oh, and Alana’s bus. Of course.”

 

“Of course,” Connor agrees. He might actually be smiling. “I’ve managed to avoid the Alana bus after the first time.” He thinks back to that first death. The first moment he realized that time was being reset, if that’s what’s happening. “So how did you die the first time?”

 

Evan’s face goes blank.

 

He looks at his mug.

 

Connor’s ears are ringing. It’s a weird sensation. He thinks he can taste something metallic, but when he swallows his ears stop ringing and all he can taste is eggs.

 

“I don’t remember,” Evan says finally.

 

Connor blinks. “How can you not remember?”

 

Evan shrugs. “I was… I am very stressed out at the moment, okay? I’m in the middle of the bar exam. Like, literally in the middle of it. It’s a two day exam and I keep resetting to the evening between the two parts of the exam and it’s very fucking stressful and I have been preparing for this for three years and I know I bombed the essay portion and of course, that’s not the thing I’m repeating, I’m repeating this night and sometimes parts of tomorrow and I have no fucking clue why any of this is happening and I’m still, like, eighty percent sure I’m imagining _you_ because in high school, Connor Murphy had yet to discover conditioner.”

 

Connor blinks again.

 

“Wow. Okay.” He self-consciously runs a hand through his hair. “Didn’t realize my defining characteristic in high school was a lack of hair care. You learn something every day.”

 

“That wasn’t your defining characteristic,” Evan blurts out. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

 

“Only rude if I’m real,” Connor feels compelled to point out.

 

Evan stares at him. “Are you real?”

 

Connor sighs in frustration. “Yes, I’m fucking real, Jesus Christ.”

 

Evan’s lip twitches involuntarily. “I’m Jewish.”

 

“Mazel Tov.”

 

“Just saying that Jesus Christ isn’t my area of expertise.”

 

Connor shrugs. “He was Jewish.”

 

“This is not what I came here to talk about.”

 

Connor sighs. “Okay. So. Obviously, the first thing I need to ask you is whether or not you’ve, like, pissed off any minor deities recently. Or made some kind of weird, Faustian bargain. Or tried to double-cross a sea witch.”

 

Evan looks at him, brow creased, like he’s trying to figure out if Connor’s serious.

 

Connor is absolutely not serious, but he’s kind of enjoying fucking with this guy.

 

Especially if he thinks Connor’s not real.

 

He’s got to get his entertainment somewhere.

 

“What’s happening to us,” Evan begins, his voice slower than it has been, “is impossible. As in, completely and utterly impossible. This is the kind of thing that happens in movies or TV shows or in novels, it’s not… it’s not real. It can’t be real.” He looks at Connor, and Connor notices that he’s starting to get worry lines around the edges of his eyes.

 

Evan looks older than Connor thinks he should.

 

Connor feels bad for a moment. At least Connor’s repeating his birthday party - Evan’s stuck in the middle of what’s probably one of the most stressful two day periods known to man.

 

That is, if Evan’s really here.

 

There’s every possibility that _Connor’s_ imagining this.

 

He doesn’t think it’s likely, all things considered, but he likes to think of himself as someone who is open to all options.

 

“The only theory I really have,” Connor says thoughtfully, “is that the first time we died, we properly died, and this is like… limbo or purgatory or whatever.”

 

Evan nods. “That’s kind of a front-runner theory, yeah.”

 

Connor nods. “Cool. Okay.”

 

Evan frowns even deeper. “So what do we do about it?”

 

Connor shrugs. “Fucked if I know.” Something occurs to him. “I didn’t think Judaism did the whole purgatory thing.”

 

“It doesn’t.”

 

“Right.”

 

Connor looks at his empty coffee cup.

 

Evan’s drinking his soup and he looks like he’s had all the life drained out of him. Connor wonders when the last time Evan slept was - as in, the last time before this whole nightmare started. Sure, the whole dying over and over thing is fucking exhausting, but there’s something in the way his former classmate is holding himself that makes Connor think that the tiredness on display runs far, far deeper.

 

“Well, I haven’t caught fire yet,” Connor jokes weakly. “Which is disappointing, really. Wasn’t purgatory supposed to involve fire?”

 

Evan laughs, then stop abruptly. He takes in a breath. “Do you smell that?” he asks sharply.

 

Connor takes in a breath of his own and catches the tell-tale scent of gas. He and Evan exchange a horrified look, seconds before everything explodes. There’s heat and pain and smoke and pain and dust and pain and -

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door.


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fucking episode of SVU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of hospitalization for a mental health crisis lie ahead. Also some blood.

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

His face feels weirdly hot. 

 

“Well,” he says to his reflection. “I said I wanted fire.”

 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts downloading Facebook as he makes his way out of the bathroom, past the girl with pink hair and into the kitchen. 

 

“Welcome to the 27 Club!”

 

“If you were going to meet up with some guy from high school who’s also dying over and over again to try to get to the bottom of why the universe obviously hates the both of you, where would you meet them?” Connor asks Andi. 

 

“Tipsy McStagger’s, the Irish Bar four blocks away,” Andi replies immediately. She stops kneading the bread dough. “Wait, your friend from high school is dying?”

 

“Sure,” Connor replies distractedly. “Let’s go with that.”

 

Connor turns around and heads to his room to pick up his jacket. And a scarf. 

 

Weirdly, it feels like was colder last time. Might as well be prepared. 

 

Margot and Eddie are snorting oxy off his Bachelor’s degree. 

 

“Happy birthday!”

 

“Party hard,” Connor says, putting on his jacket. He checks his pocket for his wallet then heads out, through the crowd of people and out the front door of his apartment. 

 

He sits on the top step of the staircase. 

 

The door to his apartment opens. 

 

“Connor,” he hears Richard say. 

 

“Nope!” 

 

Connor slides down the stairs as fast as his butt can move until he gets to the bottom, then carefully walks out of the apartment building and in the direction of Andi’s favorite Irish bar. 

 

He pulls out his phone, opens up Facebook and looks up Evan Hansen’s profile. 

 

He has to download Messenger to message him, so he stops just outside his apartment building where he knows he’ll still have Wi-Fi and waits for the download to finish, bouncing in place a little so he doesn’t fucking freeze. 

 

It genuinely does feel like it’s colder.

 

He hopes Otis is okay. 

 

Maybe next time, he should bring Otis a scarf or something. 

 

Once Messenger is downloaded, he’s staring down an empty conversation thread with Evan. 

 

He doesn’t hesitate. He sends Evan the address of the bar he’s going to and tells him he’ll see him there. 

 

Then he keeps walking, making sure to check carefully for traffic and manholes. 

 

* * *

Evan stood in his bathroom, facing the mirror. The sink was running and his mouth tasted like vomit. His phone started to buzz when he shut off the sink and, breaking with his routine, Evan picked up.

“Honey! I’ve been trying to get ahold of-”

“Mom, I think I’m having some kind of-of mental breakdown or something,” Evan blurted because he just died he just died again with Connor Murphy again, a gas explosion at a diner he liked because they were open all hours except being there caused the place to blow up and Evan needed to make this stop. 

“Sweetheart, slow down,” His mom said. “What is going on?”

“I keep thinking that I’m dying, but-but I’m not thinking it, I’m living it. I keep living through these deaths, these horrible, awful, painful deaths and they keep happening and keep getting worse and I don’t know what to do but I think I’m losing my mind. I keep dying and dying and now I’m seeing some kid I went to high school with and… I think I’ve lost it, mom, I think I’m going crazy.”

“Evan,” His mom said and her voice was firm. “You are not crazy. When is the last time you slept at all, sweetheart? You sound exhausted.”

A few resets ago, the time with the elevator he thought. That was the last time he had slept. Maybe he could use some sleep. Dying was hard work, after all.  “It’s been. It’s been a while.”

“Okay baby, take a deep breath.” 

Evan tried but he was honestly not that good at breathing in. 

“Do you think you’re in immediate danger?”

“Yes. No. I-I-I don’t know!”

“Alright, sweetheart. Alright.” He heard her shuffling something, imagined her searching for her keys at home because she never seemed to set them in the same place twice. “If I start driving now, I can get there by tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow morning if I speed. Can you keep yourself safe until then?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Okay. So here is what we’ll do. I’m going to hang up. You’re going to call 911 and tell them what is happening, and then you’re going to call me right back.”

He definitely couldn’t do that because the ambulance would crash, the hospital would get shot up by a deranged gunman, his mom could get hit by a semi truck…

“No.” He laughed slightly. “Okay. I uh. I think I was just… panicking. I’m sorry. You don’t have to come, mom, I’m sorry if I scared you. That’s not… you don’t have to come, I’m fine, really.”

“Evan, I’m your mother. I know when you’re lying to me.” She sighed. “I’m already in the car.”

“You really don’t have to come. I -”

“Call for help if you need it, baby, I’m serious. I will be there tomorrow. I need to concentrate on driving but call me back if you need to, okay? I love you.” She hung up. 

Fuck fuck fuck no no no no. 

He could really use a fucking do-over about now, Evan thought. She couldn’t come here… he could die in front of her, she could see the state of his bedroom and lock him away, she would see and then everything would fall apart. 

Evan didn’t call 911. He was definitely not going to be calling 911. But he did feel his phone vibrate, so he swiped the screen to see a message from Connor with an address. 

No fucking way was Evan going anywhere to meet Connor Murphy like this. No fucking way. Every single time he had seen that guy, he had died within ten minutes. No, no he could not meet up with Connor because if he met up with Connor he would die…

But if he died, then his mom wouldn’t remember their conversation…

That was fucking dark. He couldn’t go there. No no, Evan could not go there because if he went there…

_ “So how did you die the first time?” _

Evan didn’t know and frankly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The whole first time was… a blank really, a slick nothing. 

He had to just… not die. 

Easier said than done, but Evan was determined to not die. 

Which… 

Okay. His mom might have been right. Maybe she was right. If he thought he was dying, then wasn’t the safest place to be a hospital? 

He googled what the closest emergency mental health hospital was, and of course it was Bellevue, this was like a fucking episode of SVU… But then he called a Lyft and agreed to a shared ride because those were better for the environment and bundled in his coat and went to wait outside, pausing to open the door for Mr. Abrahamson as he went. 

Outside, his Lyft kept getting delayed until the app let him know they were sending an entirely different car and Evan laughed to himself and dug in his pockets for a crumpled pack of cigarettes because he was a massive hypocrite but he needed something to do with his damn hands. His Lyft got delayed again. Maybe he should have called an ambulance, he thought to himself with a little twisted smile, because this was taking forfuckingever. 

Once cigarette later, a black car finally pulled up in front of his building and Evan climbed into the back, driver’s side, because that was the safest place to be in a car. The driver tried to make conversation, asking if he was visiting someone and Evan wanted to snap that considering that it was after 9:00pm did this dude really think Evan was visiting someone in a mental hospital? 

Instead he said nothing and checked his phone. He had another message from Connor,  _ “Where are you?”  _ but he ignored it to text his mom, because he owed her this he really owed this to her, saying,  _ “I’m safe, on my way to the hospital. I’m so sorry about this. I love you.” _

His mom didn’t answer because she was driving, and Evan knew that, but it might have been nice to have something from her in this moment to show him that she wasn’t going to hate him forever for this, but he knew it was asking a lot of her, of this situation, of the universe. He just… wished he had something nice from his mom to hold onto before they locked him away forever. Because that was going to happen, there were only two ways he saw this scenario ending: mental hospital for life or death, permanently. 

His driver turned his head to ask Evan if he had a preference for music and Evan didn’t know any songs that spoke to this particular batshit situation, and as the driver turned his head Evan watched him blow a red light and muttered “Oh come  _ on. _ ”

Couldn’t the universe do better than a car crash at this point?

Another car plowed into the driver’s side, a loud crash of metal on metal and shattering glass and Evan looked down to see blood blooming on his jacket, formed a Rorschach blot, the one that looked like maybe it was a butterfly, and Evan hated this hated this because it hurt like hell, it hurt and it hurt and his driver was gasping for air in front of him and Evan was just stuck watching all of his blood pouring out as it got harder and harder to breath in and then.

 

Evan was standing in his bathroom, the water in his sink was running and his mouth tasted like vomit.

“Damn it!” Evan shouted, slamming a hand down on the sink’s edge, feeling pain radiating up his arm. He closed his eyes, breathing out of his nose, in and out, slow deep breaths. And then he switched off the tap. Washed his mouth out with mouthwash. Ignored his phone buzzing.

He hit “ignore” on the call and opened facebook until he had scrolled to Sabrina’s engagement photo and liked it, commenting that he was happy for her because he was happy for her, he was so fucking happy that she wasn’t anywhere near any of this bullshit.

Evan went and laid down in his bedroom turning off the lights and just falling on top of his covers, curling into a ball. His mouth tasted like puke, mint, and a cigarette. His head was too heavy. He’d told his mom last time. What the fuck was the matter with him, bringing her into this? What if she had gotten here, what if she had had to watch him die? He couldn’t… Evan couldn’t do that again, he couldn’t do that to her. She didn’t need to be worrying about him like that. 

He knew she would call again so he sent her a quick text, just so she wouldn’t worry more than he already knew she would.  _ “Hey mom. The exam went well. I went out for a drink with some people after to celebrate making it through the first day, and I think I’ll head to bed early so I get in a good night’s sleep. I love you! I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” _

He set his phone down on the pillow next to his head, closing his eyes and willing himself to be true to his word, to just go to sleep, to stay here and stay safe. He heard his phone buzz again, and Evan pictured an “I love you too” text from his mom and realized, feeling sort of sheepish and small admitting it to himself, that he sort of needed to hear that from her. 

But it wasn’t his mom. 

It was fucking Connor. 

_ “Hey you never showed up last time. I got taken out by a collapsing shelf of booze. All the good shit fell on me.”  _ Evan watched the three dots that indicated Connor was typing appear, disappear, and appear again.  _ “Meet me at the bar.” _

Evan was not doing that. No fucking chance was he going anywhere. He was determined to stay put, to try and outlast this fucking nightmare. 

Evan assumed he might have drifted off to sleep eventually because he woke up a few hours later with a stiff neck after hearing the door to his apartment open. Evan sprang to his feet because he was so not about to get murdered after all of the other crap he had gone through lately, grabbing one of his heaviest textbooks and heading into the living room, trying to shout “WHO’S THERE?” in the most menacing voice possible. 

It was Mattie, in her scrubs, looking sort of alarmed. “Just me!” She squeaked. 

Evan put the book down, breathing a sigh of relief. “Sorry, sorry, oh my god, I’m so sorry Mattie, you just… scared the shit out of me.”

“Well… mutual,” She said, laughing a little. “My chief resident caught on that I was over hours and sent me home, sorry.”

Evan nodded. “So… you’ve been here the whole time? Every morning?”

Mattie shook her head. “No? I legit just walked in, isn’t that why you’re all like He-Man with your book there?”

“Yeah,” Evan said, because, okay, so Mattie was there in the mornings but he hadn’t noticed before okay that made sense. “Sorry again, for uh. For yelling and whatever.”

“No problem man,” She said, smiling. “Oh, before I forget.” She held a small paper pharmacy bag out for him. “Your Adderall, as requested.”

“Thanks,” Evan said, trying to politely smile back when he took the bag. 

“Good luck tomorrow,” She said. 

“You remembered that I’m taking the bar?” Evan said, surprised. He genuinely had not seen Mattie in ages. 

“Yeah? We had you put it on the calendar! We were hoping to both get off tomorrow night and take you out for dinner. If Alex is off, act surprised for her, okay? She needs it.”

“Thanks.”

She waved him off, heading to her bedroom and Evan stared into the space where she had just stood for a long time. They both remembered about the bar. Mattie said they were planning to take him out for dinner, even though they weren’t friends. 

That was… nice. Really nice. He suddenly, desperately, wanted to live long enough to get to that damn dinner. 

Evan headed down the hall to bathroom, thinking maybe he could use a shower before he went back to sleep. His clothes were sticking to him in places and he smelled like he had been running a marathon. Evan locked the bathroom door, stripping out of his clothes and letting the water warm up, thinking that, yeah, he could do this. 

He would shower and get a good night’s sleep. He would be better this time. He’d get up and he would take the bar and do well, do seriously well, and then he and his roommates who apparently didn’t hate him would take him out for dinner to celebrate. No dying, no Connor Murphy, none of that. 

He was going to get through this. 

Evan pulled back the curtain and stepped into the shower. His foot skidded on the wet surface and Evan went down, hard, landing on his neck with a sickening crack and then. 

Evan was standing in his bathroom. The sink was running and his mouth tasted like vomit. Evan hung his head, shutting the water off. His phone began to buzz and Evan let it, just let it until his mom’s call went to voicemail. Then he rinsed out his mouth and went to go and sit on his sofa and scroll through his facebook feed. Any minute now, Connor would message him. In the meantime, he found Sabrina’s post and commented on it, _“Congratulations! I am so happy for you! If you’re still in the city, I would love to catch up and meet the lucky guy!”_

Probably too much but you couldn’t blame a guy for trying. 

When the message from Connor came, it was short. _ “Are you done ignoring me?” _

Evan sighed. He supposed that he was, in fact, done ignoring Connor.  _ “Yes. Same bar?” _

_ “Yes. I’ll be there in half an hour. I’ve got to stop somewhere first.” _

Evan fought the urge to tell him not to die. Instead he got up and changed out of his shirt because this polo was starting to make Evan feel like a cartoon character who never changed their clothes. He pulled on an old, old t-shirt and a black zip hoodie before donning his jacket and shoes. Connor said thirty minutes, but on time was late, so Evan headed out anyway, feeling a bit sorry to be missing Mr. Abrahamson. He hoped maybe someone else would open the door for him. Or WD-40 the lock or something. 

Evan was exceedingly cautious on the walk to this Irish Pub, stopping to check in on his surroundings often and attracting a few long looks from the other pedestrians who were utilizing the same sidewalks. Evan wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans a few times, cursing himself for getting nervous about this. Connor and Evan had died together twice now, so it was literally impossible for Evan to do anything he would consider more embarrassing at this point. 

Twenty minutes after Connor’s initial text, Evan had a seat at the bar, warily eyeing the shelves of liquor. He ordered a vodka soda and then grabbed a seat in a booth where he had a good view of the door. 

Ten minutes later, Connor Murphy walked into the bar. 

 

* * *

Walking into the same bar for the third time in a row is giving Connor some serious deja vu. 

 

Then again, so is his entire fucking life. 

 

He heads straight for the bar and orders whisky, thinking idly to himself that he should have picked up his bottle of twenty-five-year old Chivas but then realizing that he can’t exactly bring a bottle of whisky into a bar and the chances of him making it out of the bar alive are statistically only 50/50. 

 

He takes a sip of his whisky, which isn’t nearly as good as the Chivas he has yet to collect, and turns around to see Evan Hansen, sitting at a booth. 

 

Connor has to admit, he’s kind of surprised. 

 

He walks over and slides in across from him. 

 

They sit in silence for a moment. 

 

“So,” Connor says finally. “You manage to get that particular freakout out of your system?”

 

Evan just stares, then laughs bitterly. “No.”

 

“Awesome,” says Connor flatly. “Okay. Let’s drink.”


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lean into the chaos of it all.

Connor’s never been a regular at Tipsy McStagger’s but he’s sure as fuck starting to feel like one now as he sits in the booth and sips at his whisky. Evan’s downing what looks like your run of the mill vodka soda like his life depends on it and honestly, at this point it very well could.

 

“So how did you die the last two times?” Evan asks suddenly. “I’m assuming you died twice.” He shuffles awkwardly. “I mean, I did.”

 

“Well,” says Connor, swirling his glass of whisky, “as I mentioned, I got taken out by the top shelf liquor, which was honestly a really fucking depressing way to go. Complete waste of good booze.” 

 

Evan nods like that’s completely normal, and Connor’s kind of enjoying the fact that he can talk about this without being asked if he’s okay, if he’s safe, if he should be committed. 

 

There is really something to be said for being around someone who  _ gets _ it. 

 

He’s still kind of pissed off Evan ignored him for two whole loops, though. 

 

“And the second time?” Evan asks. 

 

Connor leans forward. “The second time,” he says, pausing for effect, “someone came in and shot up the bar with a machine gun.”

 

Evan’s eyes widen. “Oh my god.”

 

“Blood everywhere,” says Connor with no small amount of satisfaction. “Dozens and dozens of patrons, brutally slaughtered. I can still hear the screaming.”

 

Evan’s looking more and more horrified when all of a sudden, his face shifts. He glares at Connor. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”

 

“Hey,” Connor says mildly, “it could happen. Gun control in this country is a fucking joke.”

 

Evan rolls his eyes. “Well, dying in a hail of gunfire is something to look forward to.”

 

Connor laughs. “That’s the spirit, Hansen,” he says encouragingly. “Lean into the chaos of it all.”

 

“I’m not one for chaos,” says Evan, his voice heavy. 

 

“No,” says Connor, nodding. “I get that impression, yeah.”  Evan finishes his drink. Connor downs his own, then stands up. “What are you drinking?” he asks. 

 

“Vodka soda,” Evan replies. 

 

Connor looks at him and rolls his eyes. “Gross. I’m getting you whisky.” Evan makes a face. “Come on, man. Scotch? Rum?” 

 

“Rum,” says Evan finally. He fumbles for his wallet but before he can do anything stupid like try to give Connor money, Connor’s already headed for the bar. 

 

He decides to throw caution to the wind and asks the bartender if he can buy a whole fucking bottle of rum. The bartender charges him a ridiculous amount, which makes sense since the guy’s gotta make a living, but Connor doesn’t care because if he’s going to die at any moment, then irresponsible spending is the least of his worries. 

 

He brings the bottle of rum and two glasses back to the booth. Evan looks slightly horrified. 

 

“Did you just buy a whole bottle of rum?” 

 

“No,” Connor replies sarcastically, “I bought a Shetland pony. Don’t ask stupid questions, I am literally holding a whole bottle of rum.”

 

“It’s just that there’s got to be an insane markup and it’s-”

 

“Don’t care,” Connor interrupts. “Chances are we don’t survive the night. And if we do, then that warrants a celebration, which means we’d need alcohol.”

 

Connor pours two glasses. Evan takes his and downs half the glass in one go. “If we don’t die,” he says, “I’ll pay you back for half the bottle.”

 

“If we don’t die,” Connor says, “you’re buying the next round.”

 

Evan shrugs. “Sure.” 

 

Connor takes a sip of his rum. It’s not bad. 

  
Evan looks at him. “So you said you had to stop somewhere?” 

 

Connor considers. “How about you tell me about your last two deaths and then I might think about telling you.”

 

Evan nods. “Well, the first one was a car crash in a Lyft on the way to the mental hospital,” he says, so completely deadpan that Connor nearly chokes on his rum, “and the second one I slipped in the shower.”

 

Connor finishes his glass. “So you still think I’m imaginary?”

 

Evan frowns. Looks at his glass. Looks at the bottle. Looks back at Connor.

 

“No. I don’t think you are.”

 

That’s oddly reassuring. 

 

Connor picks up the bottle and refills his glass, then tops up Evan’s. He puts the bottle down, picks up his glass and raises it in the air. “To not being imaginary,” he says, even though he feels ridiculous doing it. 

 

Evan’s mouth curves into a wry smile and he raises his own glass. 

 

The clinking sound as the two glasses connect is kind of like music. 

 

“So you said you had to stop somewhere,” Evan says after they’ve both had a drink. “You didn’t mention it the last two times, so I figure this is something new.”

 

Connor shrugs. He feels weird about it, but he still stands by his decision. “There’s this guy who plays guitar near my apartment,” he says. “Pretty sure he’s homeless. I feel like it’s getting colder so I gave him a scarf.”

 

Evan blinks, and looks at Connor like he’s seeing him for the first time. He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Long enough for Connor to finish his second glass of rum. 

 

“Okay, stop being weird,” Connor says finally. “It’s not like it’s going to make any difference once we die again. I just… it’s just a scarf.”

 

“I think,” says Evan slowly, “that this is proof that you’re not imaginary.”

 

Connor tamps down a wave of irritation. “Because I was such an asshole in high school that there’s no way I would have done something nice for someone?”

 

Evan looks a little guilty. “You weren’t an asshole, you were just… troubled.”

 

Troubled. 

 

Huh. 

 

“Gotta say,” Connor admits, “that’s diplomatic. You’ll be a good lawyer.”

 

“If I ever pass the bar.”

 

“I’m sure you’ll ace it,” Connor says. “You’re smart. Like, really smart. You were always way up there in the class rankings.” 

 

Evan looks genuinely surprised. “I didn’t think you paid attention to that.”

 

Connor shrugs. “Well, no, but…” He clears his throat. “I’m trying to fucking compliment you, okay? Could you just take a compliment?” Evan looks horribly uncomfortable, so Connor feels compelled to continue. “Whatever. I just remember from high school that you always did well at shit, but you weren’t all… in your face about it like Alana Beck, and I thought that was… cool or whatever.” He shrugs. “Like, you were smart, but you didn’t have to make sure everyone else knew that.”

 

Evan’s face twists into a weird expression Connor can’t quite place. “Alana seems to be doing pretty well for herself,” he points out, and it’s very obvious he’s trying to change the subject.

 

“A bus with Alana’s face on it has killed us both,” Connor replies. “Make of that what you will.” He has a drink. “What does the community board do?” Evan opens his mouth and Connor groans. “Actually, you know what, don’t answer that. I don’t care.”

 

He tops off Evan’s drink, for lack of anything better to do. 

 

Evan looks at him, then at his glass, then downs the whole thing in one go and puts it back on the table. 

 

Connor laughs. 

 

Picks up the bottle. 

 

Fills Evan’s glass again. 

 

“Why did you keep messaging?” Evan asks. “Even after I ignored you?”

 

“Because this whole dying thing sucks,” Connor replies instantly. “And I thought it might suck less if I wasn’t the only one.”

 

* * *

 

Connor’s words were a bit… too real. Evan didn’t know how he was supposed to respond to them, because frankly, the idea of doing this with another person scared him shitless. And it felt wildly rude to break up with your death loop partner just because you were terrified of commitment. 

If there was even a way to break this situation up. 

Evan wasn’t exactly up on that particular branch of contract law. 

He poured himself another drink. This was his fault, really, because he had been the one to ask. Maybe, Evan thought, Connor had some kind of answers or… something. He hadn’t expected anything along these lines. Anything remotely close to… another person who wanted to go through this with him, or at least not alone.

This was heavier than Evan was prepared to get. He downed another drink, then another. He didn’t even like rum all that much, at least not straight, but he couldn’t stomach whiskey anymore because he had spent his undergraduate career drinking whiskey cokes and holding Sabrina Patel’s hand and it was the drink they had gone out and had the night they agreed that, hey, they were going to both be in New York so why not live together? And it was also the drink that Evan had finished two minutes before she arrived at another, nicer bar to tell her that he was so sorry, so damn sorry, but this wasn’t working and they both knew it and she got angry and she cried and it was horrible and awful but better than watching her keep trying to take care of him. 

He moved out of their apartment and moved in with Mattie and Alex and Sabrina moved back home and started seeing Graham Smith and today which was always fucking today, Graham had proposed at the top of the Empire State Building which was such a touristy, bullshit place to propose but she had said yes which mean that maybe somewhere out there, Sabrina was getting her happily ever after. 

And Evan was drinking rum because he couldn’t stomach whiskey with a man who also kept dying, because the universe was really trying desperately to make Evan someone else’s problem. 

“So,” Evan said after a pregnant silence. “It’s your birthday?”

Connor looked surprised or maybe irritated, Evan never had been super great at reading expressions. He dreaded the day he got stuck doing jury selection because Evan personally thought everyone always looks annoyed to be around him constantly. “Yeah,” Connor said, taking a drink and swallowing. “I’m twenty-seven.”

Evan nodded. He was supposed to be twenty-seven in a month and a half but he was also supposed to be taking the bar and becoming a lawyer, and who knew if any of that would happen. 

“Wait, how old are you? My roommate keeps saying this thing about the twenty-seven club… Could that be something?”

“I’m twenty-six,” Evan said apologetically. “And I’m not a musician.” He paused to take another drink. “And neither are you, to my knowledge.”

“Some people say Kurt Cobain was more of a poet than a rock star,” Connor said, shrugging. 

“Some people also say that Nirvana is overrated,” Evan countered and found himself smiling, just a little, because he was… teasing Connor? About Nirvana? Who was he? Had he knocked his head too hard during his last go around and misplaced his personality? “Are you a poet?”

“I’ve dabbled,” Connor said, smiling a little wider now and taking a drink. “You?”

“Hell no,” Evan said, and then sort of felt embarrassed at the brashness. It occurred to him that he was… sort of drunk. “I mean, sure, I do a lot of writing. I write papers and briefs and memos and I even once ghost-wrote a sexy email for this guy I used to work for. But no poems. I’m not… artistic or whatever.”

“Sexy boss email sounds sort of creative.”

“It wasn’t, trust me,” Evan said, shaking his head in disgust. His boss at the time, Richard, was a disgusting guy when it came down to it. He was married and had a son. His husband was a very nice man, and Richard was just casually and regularly cheating on James. The bookstore guy, the barista from the ground floor Starbucks, Jordan the office administrator… Everyone was fucking Richard. Everyone but Evan, because Evan had some damn standards. The email Evan had sent wasn’t especially sexy, honestly, just a basic, “Can’t wait to see you tonight and fuck you” kind of bland thing. He didn’t even remember which side piece he had sent the email to, but his money was on bookstore guy because he remembering thinking the name of the store was awfully twee. 

“So what kind of lawyer -?” Connor started, but Evan cut him off. 

“Could we maybe talk about… not that?” Evan said, trying to smile. “It’s kind of… I don’t really want to talk about it?”

Connor nodded. “Have you tried to tell anyone else about… this?” He gestured between the two of them, as if whatever the reason they kept dying existed in the space between their bodies. 

“My mom,” Evan said. “Which was how I found myself halfway to Bellevue two resets ago. I half told my roommate, but she’s a sleep-deprived doctor so I don’t think she was really… listening. And I kind of half mentioned it to a cashier at a liquor store once?” He finished his drink. “How about you?”

“My roommate, who thought I was just high, and my sister… who also thought I was nuts.”

His sister was Zoe Murphy. The very same Zoe Murphy that Evan had obsessed over in high school, the one he had written about as his whole reason to keep living in that damn therapy letter what Connor stole. Evan had not thought about Zoe Murphy in a long time, but suddenly he could picture her high school self perfectly, all floral peasant tops and indigo streaks in her hair and a guitar slung over her shoulder. 

Last time Connor and Evan had talked about Zoe, Connor had stolen a therapy letter from Evan and assumed Evan was fucking with him. 

“Your sister’s Zoe, right?” He asked, hoping it sounded casual. 

“Yeah,” Connor said, mercifully not lashing out this time. “But you know that.”

“I do,” Evan said. He shakily went to pick up his glass but found his hands weren’t quite able to grasp it. “Maybe… maybe I should just, uh, clear the air about that whole thing?” He didn’t wait to see if Connor would allow it. “It was... The letter was a therapy assignment. I had to write these stupid letters to myself, like pep talks, for my therapist and… It was not… I wasn’t fucking with you. That day.” He chewed his lip for a moment. “I… Zoe was nice to me a couple of times, and well. You remember me in high school, I wasn’t exactly… like Mr. Popularity, and so her being nice meant a lot at the time and so I kind of had a crush on her and that’s… That was all that letter was.”

“Pretty fucking depressing for a pep talk, dude.”

Evan sighed, relieved. “Uh, yeah. I was pretty terrible at uh… talking myself up.”

“As opposed to now, when you can’t quit bragging about yourself,” Connor said, sort of laughing and for the first time in many lifetimes, Evan felt himself start to relax, just a little. 


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maaaaaaanhole

For a virtual stranger, Connor Murphy made decent company. Not that Evan was the most experienced in what made decent company, but Connor seemed better at this than he was which was good. 

Connor talked a lot about nothing in particular. It was strange, Evan found, having these aimless conversations, because everything in his life had become so… intentional. Purposeful. He had a schedule and a plan and he stuck with it, even when it felt insane, even when it meant reliving and reliving and reliving the same days all of the time. 

Connor liked books, Evan learned. A lot. He thought Nabokov was underrated, but also that young adult fiction was as well. “Not everything needs to be pretentiously dense,” He said, and damn was that ever a mood. 

“Accessibility gets confused with simplicity a lot,” Evan volunteered, and Connor’s eyes lit up as he declared that Evan was “exactly, right” and Evan felt something warm spreading in his guts. 

But then he realized they had polished off a good third of the rum bottle, so he figured it was most likely just the booze. He did this, he got ahead of himself with fond feelings for anyone who so much as spared him a “have a good day” on the subway. He needed to keep it together, keep his head… he had to take the bar tomorrow if they made it to tomorrow. 

“Okay, okay, I know you said you don’t want to talk about it,” Connor said. “But I gotta know what sort of lawyer you’re gonna be, and if you don’t tell me, I’m gonna start guessing.” 

Evan rolled his eyes, feeling his jaw loosen a little. “Well realistically I’m not going to be any kind of lawyer because I can’t even finish the bar.” 

Connor didn’t look impressed. 

“I studied environmental law.”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Are you one of those buzzkill types who won’t, like, drink almond milk because it’s not eco friendly?”

Evan wasn’t actually, but he sort of wanted to be. He knew that the almond production was hurting bees and many of them were being transported across the country in massive diesel eighteen wheelers and all and all it as an ecological clusterfuck, but he was lactose intolerant and sometimes worked eighty hour weeks. 

Maybe he should have just become a beekeeper. 

“I’m allergic to bees,” Connor said. Apparently Evan had said this outloud. 

“Me too,” Evan said, shrugging, because he had probably just managed to summon a swarm of February bees. “But then maybe I’d actually be doing something useful.”

“Hey, crazy idea, but have you ever chilled the fuck out?”

Evan was so surprised he genuinely laughed. “No. I can honestly say that I haven’t.”

“My back hurts looking at you,” Connor went on. “Your posture would upset a chiropractor.”

“Don’t worry. It has.”

They both cracked up laughing. 

 

* * *

 

“Okay, so what about you?” Evan says, once he’s stopped laughing. 

 

Connor is confused. “What about me?”

 

Evan rolls his eyes like it’s completely obvious. “What do you do? What have you been up to since high school?”

 

“Well,” Connor says slowly, “I’ve died a lot, so that’s a thing.”

 

Evan snorts. “So have I. You’re not special.”

 

Connor grins. “Rude.”

 

He kind of likes seeing Evan showing some attitude. It’s oddly endearing. 

 

Evan’s looking at him expectantly, so he figures he better explain his whole thing. “Well, the short answer is I kind of work at a bookstore,” he begins, “but that’s only, like, a few days a week. I have some friends from college and we run a small publishing company.”

 

“Okay,” says Evan, nodding. “So how does that work?”

 

Connor shrugs. “Mostly I work from home or whatever. We don’t exactly have the space for an office, and Dave and Mikael do the whole, like, people facing thing. Like marketing and promoting and dealing with the authors and shit. I just read the manuscripts and kind of… polish them and make sure they make fucking sense or whatever.” He shrugs again. “And, like, type-setting and shit so they can go to the printers.”

 

Evan looks like he’s trying to figure it all out in his head. “Huh,” he says. “That’s very…”

 

“Tragically bohemian?” Connor offers, and Evan laughs and nods. “Yeah, that’s what Zoe always says. She once told me that if I lived in France in the 1890s, I’d be the one out trying to get tuberculosis.”

 

Evan snorts. “I can kind of imagine that, actually.”

 

“Dude,” says Connor with a laugh of his own, “tuberculosis isn’t a sexy way to die.”

 

“How do you know?” Evan points out. “You haven’t died of tuberculosis.” He grins. “Yet.”

 

They both crack up laughing again. 

 

It dawns on Connor that he is very, very drunk. 

 

“I’m very, very drunk.”

 

Evan looks at him and smiles. “Honestly, can anyone blame us?”

 

“Do you think we’ll be hungover after the next time we die?”

 

“Probably,” Evan says, nodding emphatically like Connor had just made a Very Good Point. “Because the universe is a dick.”

 

“I’ll drink to that,” says Connor, raising his glass.

 

Evan lifts his own glass and they go to clink them together but miss widely. Evan starts laughing and Connor thinks that Evan has a very nice laugh when he is laughing a laugh that is not just a sad and frustrated laugh and maybe it is a laugh he would like to hear more because it is very nice. 

 

“Maybe when we die this time it won’t hurt as much,” Connor adds, before drinking his rum. The bottle is nearly empty and he regrets nothing. 

 

“I hope so,” says Evan, once again nodding. “Hurts like a bitch.”

 

“I know, right?” Connor hiccups, then continues. “We should, like, take a bet about how we’ll die next.”

 

“Manhole,” Evan says immediately. “There have been a lot of manholes.”

 

Connor snickers. “Heh. Manhole.” 

 

Evan blinks a few times. 

 

Connor feels like the word bears repeating. 

 

“Manhole. Maaaaaaaaanhole.”

 

“Oh my god,” says Evan, groaning. 

 

“There have been a lot of manholes,” Connor continues, genuinely cackling now. “That’s what you said.” Evan’s looking at him with this weird expression and Connor feels the need to clarify that he is making a gay sex joke because Evan Hansen is, like, Straight Boy™. “I am all for a manhole, myself. Love a good manhole. Maaaaaaanhole.” He takes a big gulp of his rum. “Humor is wasted on the straights.”

 

“Wait, you think I’m straight?” Evan says loudly. 

 

Connor blinks. “Uh, yeah?”

 

“Oh no,” Evan says firmly. “None of that. Just because I’m constantly dying doesn’t mean I’m going to let you sit here and tell me I’m  _ straight _ .”

 

“Dude,” says Connor, a little lost. “So… what’s your deal?”

 

“Both,” says Evan immediately. “I like manholes and…” He trails off and looks very confused. “I can’t think of something that killed me that I can compare to a vagina.”

 

“Oh man, you should see my bathroom. It is very vaginal.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“I live with a lesbian artist who wants to fuck my sister.”

 

“Oh my god.”

 

“She’s named her vagina,” Connor continues. 

 

“Oh my  _ god.” _

 

“She calls it Blossom.”

 

“Connor, seriously, what the fuck.”

 

Connor pours the last of the rum into his glass. Evan looks at him, glass empty, and actually pouts and it’s kind of fucking adorable so Connor feels like he should be kind and goes to pour out some of the rum in his glass into Evan’s glass but instead he just pours it on Evan’s hand and then Evan just looks confused and then goes to lick his hand and that’s when the bartender kicks them out. 

 

They stand outside the bar for a moment. 

 

A long moment. 

 

Perhaps even many moments. 

 

“Suppose something’s going to fall from the sky and crush us?”

 

“I watched a TV show once,” says Evan matter-of-factly, “where a girl was killed by a falling toilet.”

 

Connor looks at Evan and cracks up laughing. “Oh my god.” 

 

They stand and laugh outside the bar for a very long time. 

 

“I have to sit the bar tomorrow,” says Evan finally. He’s gone pale and is unsteady on his feet. “I should go home.”

 

“I’ll order you a Lyft,” says Connor. “They do the ride sharing thing.”

 

“It’s better for the environment,” Evan agrees. 

 

Connor thinks about Richard who used to say shit like that, then tries not to think about Richard because that’s just making him annoyed, because how dare he tell Connor he’s going to leave his husband and kid for him?

 

Except that he hasn’t told him that yet and hopefully won’t get a chance to tonight. 

 

Connor thinks that if he lives until morning he’s gonna want pancakes. 

 

Pancakes sound amazing. 

 

It is a weird drunken blur from then on. All Connor can say for sure is that he gets into a car because he figures that at this stage, it’s less dangerous than walking four blocks and Evan doesn’t actually live far from Connor at all and they pass the liquor store and Connor sees Otis and thinks about stopping to make sure he is warm enough but doesn’t tell the driver in time and also feels weird about it and when he gets back to his apartment, he walks up the stairs and when he gets to the top of the stairs he lets out a whoop of victory and then loses his balance and-

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

Huh. 

 

He’s sober. 

 

Well, not entirely. He’s still a little buzzed and his breath smells like rum, but he’s definitely not as drunk as he was. 

 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and installs Facebook and then Messenger, ignoring the pounding on the door as it intensifies. Before he can type in Evan Hansen’s name, there’s a message notification. 

 

**This time it was falling down the stairs that did the trick.**

 

Connor laughs. 

 

**Hey, same.**

 

The response comes almost immediately. 

 

**So… what now?**

 

Someone is yelling outside the door. Connor sighs, opens the bathroom door and pushes past the girl with the pink hair and heads to the kitchen. 

 

“Welcome to the 27 Club!”

 

“Thank you,” says Connor, trying to figure out what to do next. He stares at his phone for a long moment. 

 

“What’s up?” asks Andi, nodding at the phone. 

 

“Just trying to figure out what to do next,” he says honestly. 

 

“Babe,” says Andi, a little patronisingly. “It’s your birthday. Enjoy your party.”

 

Connor considers it. 

 

**Would you maybe change your mind on the whole party thing?**

**It IS my birthday.**

* * *

Evan was exactly the sort of sucker who would get conned into attending a birthday party with the old “It IS my birthday” line, like it hadn’t been Connor’s birthday like fifteen freaking times by now.

But there he was, having changed into a nicer button down and picked up a bottle of rum on the way, slowly climbing the stairs to the party Connor had invited him to several times over several deaths. His hands felt clammy and Evan himself felt too exposed, too vulnerable as he made his way inside. There were too many people, all of them looking at him like he didn’t belong here because he didn’t belong here, he should just go, he ought to just leave before Connor noticed he had arrived, come back in an hour or two or never. He was just about to ditch the bottle of fucking rum on the nearest end table and skedaddle when he felt an arm loop around his shoulders. “You made it!” 

“Literally,” Evan mumbled, ducking his head and wriggling free of Connor’s grasp. 

“And the stairs didn’t get you! I’m impressed.”

That sentence made Evan’s shoulders tense, and he tried to check to make sure nobody else was listening in on their conversation. Evan really really didn’t need to be known as the crazy person at the party within the first three minutes there. He just didn’t think he could handle that tonight. “Here.” Evan shoved the bottle of rum into Connor’s hands. 

“Is this a birthday present?”

Evan rolled his eyes. “I’m not getting you another one. It’s your birthday  _ everyday _ .” He said it quietly, but he knew Connor had heard him because he laughed. 

Connor laughed, and it was this strangely buoyant sound, like he had genuinely no cares in the world and there was a word for that, wasn’t there? Or at least a phrase or something, for people who didn’t give a shit anymore but in a good way? His brain wasn’t working quite right, like he was already drunk or still drunk from last time, but Connor was towing him out of the doorway and into the massive living room, packed to the gills with people. 

“I would introduce you, but I don’t even know half of these people,” Connor said, shrugging. 

“Right,” Evan said, eyes still catching on all of the faces and fashionable outfits and here he was in his dopey looking button down, sticking out like a sore thumb. It was very loud and very crowded and the music playing in the background was jangly and strange and Evan very much missed his apartment already. He wasn’t built for this, these staring eyes and voices rising with pleasant small talk fading into static, white noise. 

Evan couldn’t do this, he absolutely could no do this. “I… Sorry but I think I should maybe just -”   


“Have a drink? Exactly, let’s get you a drink!” Connor said, steering Evan to the kitchen where a woman with a bright red Afro and Harry Potter glasses was kneading dough on the counter. Connor parked Evan at the kitchen, like genuinely parallel parked him like a car, shifting his shoulders until Evan was standing kitty corner to the dough kneader before heading for a cabinet to grab a glass. 

“Connor, who is this?” The woman asked. 

“Evan. We went to high school together.”

“Hi,” Evan said, awkwardly waving. 

This woman he had just met wiped her hands on a towel before pulling Evan into a bone crushing hug. She smelled like patchouli and a little bit like weed. “It’s so nice to meet you,” She said, squeezing him so tight Evan was fearful he might lose consciousness from a lack of oxygen. “I’m Andromeda. Andi to my friends.” She let go, smiling, no, beaming at Evan like he was a precious ray of sunlight she had somehow caught in a jar and Evan felt himself physically shrinking away in case she tried to grab him again. “You knew Connor in high school? So you must know Zoe.”

_ Because there’s Zoe and all my hope is pinned on Zoe.  _

Evan tried so smile and shake his head to say, no, really, he didn’t actually know Zoe, but he couldn’t make his mouth work right. Connor put a drink in his hand and Evan had one of those super fun anxiety thoughts where he wondered if he had just missed Connor drugging him because he was distractedly talking to this Andi-person, but honestly, if Connor wanted to drug him, it wasn’t like it would matter. 

“Ah, there she is now. Let’s say hi!” Andi said and she had grabbed Evan by the wrist and starting towing him over to an Adult Zoe Murphy who wore her hair in a very practical ponytail and had on a nice outfit and definitely did not have any fucking clue who the fuck Evan was. Evan tried to shoot a pleading look back toward Connor, but he had been sidetracked by someone in a very nice jacket, like a jacket so nice it called attention to itself in an extremely douchey way, and Evan squinted only to realize with a jolt that he knew  _ exactly  _ who owned that jacket. 

Richard, his boss from about six months ago, the chronic cheater who also was responsible for the case that reduced carbon emissions in the city significantly in the last five years. 

What the fuck was Richard doing here and why was he talking to Connor?

“And Zoe, look, it’s Evan from your high school!” Andi had deposited Evan right in front of Zoe Murphy. “It’s like a high school reunion!”

Zoe opened her mouth like she might protest, say she didn’t actually know Evan-from-her-high-school but thought better of it. She offered him a polite smile. “Hi. Nice to see you again.”

“Thanks,” Evan said, and this was humiliating, utterly humiliating, he had genuinely never felt as laughably insignificant as he did in this moment. “You too.” 

“Did Connor invite you?” Zoe asked him. 

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Huh,” She said, a bit coldly, looking over Evan’s shoulder to where Connor appeared to be arguing with Richard. “And yet Andi was the one who invited me.”

“Sorry,” Evan said automatically, “I just… my phone is… I’ll be back, sorry, nice to see you again.” He rushed away from the conversation because he should not have come here, this was a huge mistake and he was an idiot for thinking that somehow tonight would be different. Like, of course it wasn’t different. It didn’t matter how hard you wished for everything to be different, the world didn’t work like that. The universe was indifferent to the wishes of people like Evan. Or if not indifferent then directly hostile.

Evan made his way out of the apartment, crossing the landing and heading for the stairs. But then he remembered Connor saying that he kept dying on these stairs and then he just stood there, staring these steps down because he was trapped here between a humiliating social interaction and a set of Death Stairs. This was worse than a rock and a hard place. 

Evan frowned, parking himself at the top of the stairs and pulling out his phone. He had commented on Sabrina’s photo while he waited for Connor to message him back earlier, so naturally now she was texting to ask if he wanted to “catch up” while she was still in the city. He debated just chucking his damn phone down the stairs, but then he might have to go down to fetch it and then he might die again so Evan just sat at the top of the stairs, feeling kind of shitty and annoyed at the entirety of this situation. This party felt like every piece of dirty laundry he had, every secret or even just private thought was being flaunted just by being here. He kept checking over his shoulder, half expecting to hear someone tittering with laughter, giggling about how Evan fell out of a tree in high school and nobody wanted to sign his cast or how once he and Sabrina had tried pegging and it was a good time had by all but Evan wasn’t sure he was okay with being that vulnerable in front of her or the fact that despite have not one but two degrees focused on the environment, Evan still used almond milk in his coffee and smoked cigarettes sometimes like some kind of environment hating monster. 

Fuck. Damn it. Fucking fuck fuck fuck. 


	12. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never meet your heroes.

Richard is annoyingly persistent this time around. 

 

Connor thinks it’s got something to do with the fact that he spotted him talking to Evan. 

 

Considering that Richard is actively cheating on his husband, Connor doesn’t think he’s got any right to be jealous or possessive, but that seems to be what’s going on. 

 

“Is that why you’re not returning my calls? Because you’re fucking that blond guy?”

 

“I’m not returning your calls because I don’t want to talk to you,” Connor shoots back, irritated because he knows that it was probably a huge fucking deal for someone as anxious as Evan Hansen to leave his apartment and show up at this party and if Andi’s trying to use him as an excuse to hit on his sister it’s all likely to go sour very quickly. 

 

“Let me take you out for dinner,” says Richard, like he’s not even taking in anything Connor’s saying. “We can go anywhere you want.”

 

“This is my birthday party,” says Connor. “I can’t just leave.”

 

He conveniently doesn’t mention the many, many times he has, in fact, done just that. 

 

“You don’t even like parties. I bet this was all Andi’s idea.”

 

“You weren’t invited,” Connor shoots back. “Look, just go home to your husband, okay? I’m done. We’re done.”

 

With that, he turns away. Richard grabs his arm. 

 

Connor barely resists the urge to punch him. 

 

“Look,” says Richard, pulling Connor to the side of the room as though he’s worried about making a scene. “It’s just… we’ve been together for a year, Connor. You can’t just throw that away. I lo-”

 

“If you say you love me again I will throw you down the stairs.”

 

Richard laughs harshly. “So, what, you think you can do better? Is that it?”

 

“I can definitely do better,” says Connor, and as he says it he realizes that it’s actually true, and warrants saying, and is probably something he should have realized a year ago. “Fuck you. I can do a lot better.”

 

“That guy you’re fucking just left,” Richard says bitterly. “Good luck.”

 

Connor turns to see Evan’s nowhere in sight. Andi’s talking to Zoe, whose expression is murderous and directed at him. 

 

Fuck. 

 

Connor heads toward the front door, only to be stopped by his sister. 

 

“So you invited some random guy I don’t even remember from high school to your birthday party but didn’t invite me?” 

 

Connor sighs. “I didn’t think you’d want to come. Where’s Evan?”

 

“He said something about a phone call,” Zoe says dismissively. 

 

“Right,” says Connor, who’s starting to feel a little uneasy. 

 

A phone call is probably code for ‘this is an awkward situation I need to leave’. But if he’s leaving, then he’s going to have to take the stairs. 

 

The murder stairs. 

 

“I’m going to go check on him,” Connor announces, but Zoe grabs his arm before he can get to the door. 

 

“Seriously,” Zoe says firmly. “You didn’t have any friends in high school. Who the hell is this guy?”

 

“Evan Hansen,” Connor says, trying not to snap at his sister because the memory of having a halfway decent conversation with her is still floating around in his head and even though she doesn’t remember it, he does. “We weren’t exactly friends in high school but we knew each other. We… reconnected recently.”

 

“Right,” says Zoe, frowning a little. “I kind of recognize the name.”

 

“He broke his arm,” Connor says. “Senior year. My senior year. I signed his cast.”

 

Zoe looks like she’s trying to place him and failing miserably. Connor sighs. “I just want to check on him, okay? He’s had a rough couple of days, I thought the party might… distract him or whatever.”

 

Connor knows that there is no party in the world that can distract Evan from the fact that he is stuck in a loop of constant dying. 

 

“Okay,” says Zoe. “Fine. Whatever.”

 

She lets go of his arm and Connor heads to the front door. 

 

He finds Evan sitting at the top of the murder stairs. 

 

“Decided not to brave the stairs?” he says, for lack of anything better to say. 

 

Evan shakes his head. 

 

Connor sits next to him at the top of the stairs. 

 

“We could shuffle down,” he suggests. “On our butts. If you really want to get out of here.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Evan laugh a little. 

 

“Smooth,” says Evan. 

 

“I try.”

 

They sit in silence for a while. 

 

“Why did you invite me to your birthday party?” Evan asks. 

 

Connor shrugs. “I don’t know. Why does anyone do anything?”

 

Evan rolls his eyes. “Do you even know all those people in there?”

 

“No,” Connor admits. “But my roommate does. And she likes any excuse to throw a party.” He sighs. “Look, statistically not leaving my apartment gives me a better chance of survival, and since you made it here without dying, maybe we can go hang out in my room and drink and… strategize or whatever. Who knows? We might make it until morning.”

 

“I have to take the bar exam tomorrow morning.”

 

Connor looks at Evan. “If we live until morning, I’ll like… bodyguard you home or whatever. Come on.” 

 

“You would make a useless bodyguard,” Evan mutters. 

 

But he does stand up. 

 

Connor stands up as well, and takes three large steps away from the edge of the staircase. 

 

Evan follows suit. 

 

“We’ll go in there,” Connor says, “and we’ll get the rum, and then we’ll go to my room and we’ll talk. And drink. Or whatever.”

 

“Okay,” says Evan wearily. 

 

Connor takes Evan’s wrist and gently drags him back into the apartment. The noise hits them like a physical slap. 

 

Before they can even think about moving to Connor’s bedroom, Zoe’s right in front of them. 

 

“So what have you been up to, Evan?” Zoe asks, her tone bright but challenging. 

 

Evan looks at Connor pleadingly. Connor goes to guide Evan away but Zoe’s persistent. 

 

“I’m, uh, I’ve been studying for the bar exam,” he says, when it becomes clear that Zoe’s not letting them leave. “I had my first day today, so I’m just… blowing off some steam before the rest of it tomorrow.”

 

“Really?” says Zoe, clearly a little skeptical. Or confused. Connor’s not sure. 

 

“Yeah,” Evan says, nodding. “How, uh, how about you?”

 

“I’m in my last year of my PhD,” says Zoe. “Clinical psychology.”

 

Evan just stares at her for a moment. 

 

Connor sighs. “Okay, good to catch up, Zo, let’s-”

 

“So do you keep in touch with many people from high school?” says Zoe, ignoring Connor completely. “I know a few people from your year. Alana Beck’s running for community board. Her face is on a bus.”

 

“I know,” Evan and Connor both say in unison. 

 

Zoe blinks. “Right. Oh, and Sabrina Patel just got engaged! Did you know her?”

 

Connor watches as all of the color drains out of Evan’s face. 

 

“Yeah,” says Evan quietly. “I know her.”

 

Connor’s hit with the memory of previous conversations about Sabrina Patel’s engagement. 

 

_ “Last time I heard she was dating some guy from back home. Can’t remember his name, but he was in your year as well.” _

 

_ “This guy was quiet. Kind of nervous.” _

 

It all clicks. 

 

Fuck. 

 

Connor puts his arm around Evan’s shoulder and very quickly starts to guide him toward his room. He turns back and looks at his sister as they move. “Good to see you, enjoy the party!”

 

When they get to Connor’s room, Margot and Eddie are snorting oxy of Connor’s Bachelor’s degree. 

 

Connor sighs. 

 

“Dammit,” he says. “I forgot the rum.” He looks at Evan. “I’ll be right back.”

 

Connor goes back to the kitchen, picks up the bottle of rum and some glasses (because he has no idea where his glass of rum or Evan’s glass has ended up and he’s not going to go looking for them) then heads back to his room as quickly as he can. 

 

“... we met at this poetry group in sophomore year of college,” Margot is saying to Evan as Eddie crushes more pills. “You should have heard some of his early stuff. It was pretentious as fuck, dude.”

 

Evan offers a weak smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he spots Connor. “Margot’s just telling me about how you guys met.”

 

“We’ve known Connor for years,” says Eddie conversationally. “We’ve done… probably all of the drugs together.” They nod. “Good times.”

 

“Okay,” says Connor decisively. “Eddie, finish whatever it is you’re crushing up then go back out to the party, yeah? Evan and I have some catching up to do.”

 

Margot wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “He’s cute,” she says approvingly. 

 

Connor rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything, feeling like if he starts going on the defensive it’s just going to make it look worse. 

 

Plus, he’s not blind. Evan’s cute. 

 

It takes a while but eventually Connor manages to get Eddie and Margot out of his room. He closes the door and turns back to Evan, who’s opened the rum and is drinking it straight from the bottle. 

 

“So,” Connor says. “Sabrina Patel.”

 

Evan wipes his mouth as he puts down the bottle. “What about her?” he snaps. 

 

“Zoe said a couple of deaths ago that Sabrina Patel was dating someone from high school before this guy she’s just got engaged to,” Connor says. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

 

Evan freezes for a moment. 

 

Then sighs. 

 

Then nods. 

 

Then drinks some more rum. 

 

“I’m sorry, man,” Connor says, not really knowing what else to say. “Getting the news that your ex is engaged over and over again? That must fucking suck.”

 

Evan laughs hollowly. “Like an idiot, I said congratulations on Facebook,” he says bitterly. “So she messaged me. She’s in town and wants to catch up but there’s no fucking way I’m letting her see this.”

 

Connor nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I feel that.” He takes the bottle from Evan and has a drink of his own, then passes it back. “If it’s any consolation, my ex can’t take a fucking hint, so that’s… exhausting.”

 

Evan’s face darkens. 

 

He takes a long chug of rum. 

 

Connor frowns. 

 

“What?”

 

“Is your ex the guy you were talking to?” Evan asks sharply. 

 

“Yeah,” says Connor slowly. “Do you know him?”

 

Evan takes another chug of rum then hands Connor back the bottle. 

 

Connor’s about to ask again when Evan finally speaks up. 

 

“Richard McLaren,” he says, his voice practically oozing with disdain. “I interned for him last summer. I was so excited to be working for someone who’d closed one of the biggest environmental law cases in recent history, it was a big fucking deal.” He laughs bitterly. “Turns out you should never meet your heroes because Richard McLaren is human garbage.”

 

Connor’s got this horrible foreboding feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he’s on a rollercoaster about to start except it’s not fun, it’s just terrible. “This, uh… this isn’t sexy email boss, is it?” he asks, even though he really doesn’t think he should. 

 

Because, well… 

 

He vaguely remembers an email. 

 

Evan stops in the middle of chugging more rum. Puts the bottle down and looks Connor dead in the eye. 

 

“What bookstore do you work at?”

 

“The Little Book Nook.”

 

Evan just looks at him for a long moment then lets out a long, frustrated groan. 

 

Connor takes the opportunity to take the bottle of rum from Evan and have a good strong drink himself. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters to himself. 

 

He doesn’t think this situation could get any more awful until the door to his room opens to reveal Richard, who looks almost as pissed off as Connor is to be seeing him. 

 

“So much for not leaving your birthday party,” says Richard bitterly. 

 

“Richard!” says Evan with false cheer. “How  _ are  _ you? How are James and Sebastian?” 

 

Richard looks at Evan with disgust. “Who the fuck are you?”

 

Evan takes the rum out of Connor’s hand aggressively. “Seriously? I interned for you all fucking summer. I babysat your kid a few times. Asshole.”

 

“Why are you still here?” Connor practically yells, climbing off the bed and striding toward Richard. They’re face to face and Connor notices that when he pulls himself up to his full height, he’s considerably taller. “Can’t you take a fucking hint?”

 

“Oh, he definitely can’t,” Evan chimes in bitterly. “At least, he couldn’t when he tried to feel me up at the 4th of July barbecue and then got pissed I wouldn’t fuck him.” Evan takes another swig of rum. “Meanwhile, his husband and his kid were both in the next room.” Evan waves the rum bottle in Richard’s direction. “You don’t deserve James. He’s a very nice man and he’s way too fucking good for you.”

 

“You’re fucking my intern?” Richard asks, his tone disbelieving. 

 

“Get the fuck out of my apartment,” Connor snaps. With that, he pushes Richard out of his room. Shuts the door. Locks it firmly. 

 

Turns back to Evan, who is making some serious headway with the rum. 

 

Then sits down on the bed next to him and sighs. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

 

Evan still looks pissed off, but he gives Connor the bottle. 

 

Connor takes a long chug. 

 

“Well, that was fun,” says Evan caustically. “You have terrible taste in men.”

 

“I’m well aware,” Connor replies dryly. 

 

“You do realize it wasn’t just you, right?” Evan continues. “He had, like, so many fucking conquests. The guy has had his dick in pretty much everyone in New York City.”

 

Connor hadn’t actually known that, but he’s not exactly surprised. 

 

He’d known that Richard was married and had a kid, but he hadn’t known their names. Hadn’t wanted to know. 

 

It’s not something he can just… unknow and it’s making him feel like shit. 

 

“He’s the one who won’t let it go, for some reason,” Connor feels the need to point out. Defend himself. Whatever. “I haven’t seen him in, like, a month, and I haven’t been answering his calls.”

 

“Finally grew a conscience?” Evan spits out. 

 

“Fuck you,” Connor replies automatically. Then feels bad. Evan’s looking at him, anger in his eyes, and for some reason he continues. “He told me he loved me last time we fucked and I don’t care for that shit at all.”

 

The anger drains out of Evan’s face. 

 

And he’s looking at Connor. 

 

Like, really looking at him. 

 

Connor can’t tell if it’s freaking him out or if he kinda likes it. 

 

“So it’s just sex,” Evan says finally. “I guess I can respect that.”

 

Connor shrugs. “I mean, yeah, what else would it be? I’m not… I didn’t  _ love _ him or any shit like that. He was just a good fuck. That’s all.”

 

Evan takes another long chug of rum. Connor finds himself paying attention to his neck, watching the muscles move as he swallows. 

 

The air feels weird, like they’re expecting a thunderstorm. 

 

If they both got hit by lightning right now Connor would not be fucking surprised. 

 

Evan looks at him again. 

 

Connor looks right back. 

 

Evan’s expression turns challenging. 

 

“I could fuck you better than Richard.”


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Challenge accepted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains adult themes. By which I mean sex.

Evan expected Connor to throw him out. Or laugh in his face or even punch him, because really, who said shit like that?

But something in Connor’s expression shifted, and he raised his eyebrows. “Alright.”

_ Alright? Alright?! _

Well. Alright. 

Evan set the bottle of rum down. Turned to face Connor who was watching him like you might watch a predatory animal, with a little uncertainty but definite interest. 

It wasn’t like Evan thought he was bad at sex or anything. He wasn’t, he had recommendations across the gender spectrum. But he felt a bit like he had thrown down a gauntlet and he wasn’t exactly sure he could deliver on that promise. 

But he supposed it was a little late for that now. 

He scooted a little bit closer and then took Connor’s face in his hands, kissing him hard. Connor went still for just a moment before responding enthusiastically, Like maybe he was surprised that Evan was kissing him. Evan knew he was certainly surprised by this turn of events. 

Connor pulled back after a moment, face quizzical. “Do you _smoke_?” He sounded scandalized, his grin all lopsided and teasing. 

“Shut up.”

They made out for a while, Connor a bit handsier than Evan was, cupping Evan through his jeans and pushing Evan back against the mattress so he could get on top. It was sort of nice, letting Connor take charge for a little while, pressing kisses to Evan’s neck. 

Evan pulled a hand through Connor’s (noticeably conditioned) hair and gave a gentle tug. Connor’s eyes closed for a moment, and Evan took that to mean it was well received and tugged just a little bit harder. Connor groaned that time. 

Success. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he told Connor, letting go of his hair and pulling at the hem of Connor’s sweater. 

“So are you,” Connor countered, and he had a point, so Evan pulled off his shirt and then Connor’s. Evan leaned in and kissed him again, biting at Connor’s lip until he gasped. 

Getting out of their pants was less of a smooth operation because Connor was fucking wearing skin tight skinny jeans and also Evan was taking a little too much pleasure in distracting him in the process. Once Connor was successfully free of his jeans, Evan dropped his own to the floor and Connor raised his eyebrows, saying he knew Evan was  _ Jewish _ , but he didn’t he didn’t know he was  _ hung,  _ and Evan genuinely smiled, because, okay, maybe he could take a compliment. 

“You’re not bad yourself,” Evan said, smiling. “I’m gonna blow you, but don’t come yet okay? Because I’m still going to fuck you.”

“Bossy.”

Evan was in fact, very bossy in bed. And apparently, Connor liked that about him. There was a bit of fumbling around for lube and condoms and Evan was glad Connor didn’t start making comments about how dying all of the time made them immune to STIs, because Evan was not contracting whatever strain of super gonorrhea he was sure Richard had. 

Evan poured out some lube onto his fingers and Connor laughed softly. 

“What?”

“Well it’s just… you’re about to fuck my manhole.”

Evan didn’t laugh. He gave Connor an extremely dirty look. 

“Maaaaaaaaanhole,” Connor said, drawing it out, and Evan ground out “Shut up” before he got down to the business of fingering Connor, who was, thankfully, too distracted to say much else after that. 

Connor was… enthusiastic and eager to please, which Evan liked. A lot in fact. They changed positions a few times, resulting in a sticky, sweaty affair that left them both out of breath. Evan had never exactly thought about the potential of actually seeing stars from sex, but he thought maybe being this out of breath could be a contributing factor. 

“Well,” Connor said once they were finished and sort of curled up together in Connor’s bed in a tangle of sheets. “I gotta hand it to you… Richard pales in comparison.”

“Poor James,” Evan joked, but Connor’s smile vanished. 

“Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Evan said, because he wasn’t intentionally bringing up Richard’s husband to be a dick he just… He was being a dick. That was uncool of him to say. Damn it.  “Fuck, that’s not what I… I’m sorry, just forget I said anything. Ignore me. That was stupid.”

“I don’t really need a guilt trip about this,” Connor said, frowning. “I’m already aware that it makes me an asshole.”

Evan knew he ought to back off, let it go, let it die. They could go back to cuddling and Evan could resume this fun pretend game where he thought for a moment he might actually be a real person. 

But he just couldn’t. “James is a really nice guy, you know? We all got stuck working Memorial Day last year and he had this whole catered lunch brought in for everyone, thanking us for all of our hard work. And-and, like, he’s so good with Sebastian, like just extremely patient and kind even when the kid is having a tantrum or whatever? Like nothing rattles him. Nothing.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Connor demanded, eyes flashing with… hurt? Guilt? Evan didn’t know. 

“Because he’s a person! He’s not, like, some idiot who you’re pulling one over on. He’s a genuinely nice person!”

“He could be the Dalai Lama for all I care, it’s got  _ nothing _ to do with me,” Connor shot back, climbing out of his bed and starting to throw on his clothes. Evan followed suit because it would be extremely weird if he just stayed there, stubbornly naked while Connor tried to throw him out. 

“I just,” Evan started because he was a stupid fucking idiot who couldn’t just let this die. “Actions have consequences, you know? Have you considered that maybe, maybe the reason that we’re, like, stuck in this awful mess is because you’re… You don’t even feel bad that you’re helping to ruin a marriage, a kid’s life -”

“I thought the whole adultery thing was in my half of the good book,” Connor said, rolling his eyes. 

“It’s literally in the Ten Commandments!” Evan shouted as he pulled his shirt back on. “That’s the Old Testament. _Everyone_ knows that!”

Connor raked a hand through his sweaty hair. “Sure, fine! I’m a horrible adulterous demon who is damned to this existence forever, whatever. What did you do that was so bad to end up like this, huh? What the fuck did you do to deserve this, then?”

Evan’s mouth went dry. 

He could feel his arms aching with effort to just keep going, keep climbing, keep reaching up and up and up until he could, until he was sure it was far enough, until he was sure he was finished, he could feel the shameful weight of a white plaster cast on his arm.

“Don’t know?” Connor said in this sickly sweet sort of taunting voice that cut Evan somewhere to the core. “Because I bet I do. I bet I know exactly what happened, and I know why you don’t want to admit it because admitting it means that you fucked up big time, doesn’t it? I mean I’ve never seen someone so stressed out in my life. You must have really fucked up -”

“Stop it,” Evan said softly. “You’re just… talking out of your ass. You’re not wise or self aware or any of that shit. You’re just a… a fucking slacker who doesn’t actually have anyone in your life who actually cares about you. Your sister hates you, and you’ve never even mentioned your parents. And I bet they pay the rent here too. You’re an entitled little boy running around playing pretend and fucking up the lives of other people. I might be stressed out and pathetic, but at least I’m  _ trying _ .’

“Trying to avoid taking a hard look in the mirror maybe,” Connor spat. “All you’re trying to do is pretend if you get enough degrees and get a good job and make a lot of money, suddenly you won’t feel all broken and empty and guess what? That doesn’t work. And I’ll bet that’s how all this started for you. Everything just built up and built up and you got to thinking, hey, you know, I could make this a whole lot easier on myself, on everyone, if I just -”

“Shut up!” 

Connor sort of laughed, “I mean, hey, I don’t like dying all of the time either but at least I don’t wish it were permanent anymore.” 

Evan felt like his bones were disintegrating under his weight, like his head was being shoved underwater, like he was eight years old and at the community pool with Jared Kleinman, his family friend, who thought it might be funny to see how long he could make Evan hold his breath. 

“At least you got what you wanted though, right? You’re a part of something now.”

Evan numbly grabbed his jacket and shoes from the floor and Connor’s room. He paused outside in the hallway to put his shoes back on, his heart hammering too hard in his chest, his eyes stinging. 

He straightened up, walking quickly toward the exit, passing people upon people upon people and paused for just a moment because he had spotted Andi pressing Zoe Murphy against the wall, the pair of them making out passionately, and he thought that that would really, really annoy Connor. 

And then he remembered precisely why he was fleeing this party, fleeing away from Connor and this situation and everything, everything that had just gotten so messed up, so beyond repair. 

He thought about calling his mom or maybe even Sabrina, calling somebody who might lie to him and tell him he wasn’t an awful, fucked up disaster of a person, and he was looking at his phone when he started down the stairs, not really watching where he was going, just thinking about how reaching out was futile now because nobody would remember him and maybe this was how Evan Hansen slowly faded from existence, from memory, when his foot caught on a loose board on the steps and Evan went tumbling down face first, his head hitting several stairs before he landed at a bad angle, his neck cracking painfully, his vision blacking out.

And then Evan was standing in his bathroom with the sink running and a mouth that tasted like vomit. 

“Damn it,” He mumbled to himself because he was just so fucking finished, so done with all of of this. He didn’t look up, he just shut off the sink and left the bathroom, not even rinsing out his mouth, not caring. Evan’s whole body felt overextended, like a rubber band about to snap from being stretched out too far. His phone was buzzing and Evan ignored the call, trudging down the hall to his bedroom where he set an alarm for early in the morning because he had to take the bar exam again tomorrow. 


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor didn’t read the manifesto.

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at the bathroom wall. 

 

The mirror is gone. 

 

The mirror is gone? 

 

“Fuck.”

 

His heart is still pounding, still racing like it’s trying to escape from his chest, because he’d only just recovered from what was probably the best sex he’s had in recent memory, followed by a vicious argument and then falling out the fucking window when he’d decided that he needed to open it to get rid of the smell. 

 

He still feels sweaty. 

 

He runs his hands through his hair. 

 

It’s still sweaty. 

 

He bites his lip, and it’s kind of sweaty, too, and it tastes like rum and regret. 

 

And the mirror is gone. 

 

Connor washes his hands, then washes his face, and pulls his hair back and ties it up with the hair tie he always keeps around his wrist. 

 

Probably should have done that the other way around. 

 

Whatever. 

 

The mirror is gone. 

 

He pushes past the girl with pink hair outside the bathroom and heads into the kitchen, where Andi’s kneading bread dough. 

 

“Welcome to the 27 Club!”

 

“What happened to the mirror in the bathroom?” 

 

Andi frowns. “There’s never been a mirror in the bathroom. Didn’t you read my manifesto?”

 

Connor doesn’t know how to answer that, so he doesn’t. 

 

He gets a glass and fills it with water from the tap, then drinks it all in one go. 

 

He still feels kind of breathless, and full of nervous energy. It’s like he’s vibrating, like there’s something shaking him, and his chest hurts and there’s a ringing in his ears and he can taste something metallic and he wonders if this is how Evan Hansen feels all the time, and whether or not this awful, buzzing nervousness was somehow sexually transmitted. 

 

That would be just horribly unfair. 

 

They definitely used protection. 

 

And now all Connor can think about is Evan, naked in his bedroom, telling Connor exactly what he wanted with no stuttering, no second guessing and no apologies, and how  _ fucking hot _ it had all been. 

 

“You okay?” Andi asks. “You’re looking kind of red.”

 

“I’m fine,” says Connor, who is definitely Not Thinking about Evan blowing him in his room and telling him not to come. 

 

Andi does not look convinced. Connor pours himself another glass of water and tries to think of anything, anything else at all, because this is not helpful right now. 

 

_ You’re just a fucking slacker who doesn’t actually have anyone in your life who actually cares about you. Your sister hates you, and you’ve never even mentioned your parents.  _

 

That thought is colder than the glass in his hand. 

 

He hates it. 

 

Hates it hates it hates it. 

 

He hates it because it’s probably true. 

 

“Here,” says Andi, pulling a joint out of her bra. “Happy birthday. You look like you could use it.”

 

Connor takes the joint from Andi gingerly. 

 

Then follows Andi’s glance across the room, to where Zoe is standing, talking to some guy he vaguely recognizes from the bookstore. 

 

_ Your sister hates you.  _

 

_ Your sister hates you.  _

 

_ Your sister hates you. _

 

“Shut up,” he mutters to himself, then heads in Zoe’s direction. She immediately looks at him, frowning a little. “Hi,” he says awkwardly. “Thanks for coming.”

 

“Thanks for not inviting me,” Zoe shoots back, her voice brittle. 

 

“I didn’t think you’d want to come,” Connor admits. “And the party was Andi’s idea anyway. If it were up to me, I’d have just… done nothing.”

 

Zoe’s expression softens a little. “Well,” she says. “Happy Birthday.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“How are you?” Connor asks. 

 

Zoe stares at him. “Do you really want to know?”

 

“Of course I do.”

 

Zoe frowns. Bites her lip. “Twenty-seven has made you weird,” she announces. “I’m fine.”

 

“How’s Craig?” Connor asks, despite the fact that he knows the answer. 

 

Zoe’s face crumples. “We broke up.”

 

Connor puts his hand on his sister’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re too good for him anyway.”

 

Zoe sniffs, then nods. “I know. I broke up with him.”

 

“Any particular reason?” Connor asks, despite the fact that he really knows the answer. 

 

Zoe takes a sip of her drink, then sighs. “Motherfucker proposed.”

 

“Let me guess,” says Connor, because he’s got this down, “he called Dad and asked for permission.”

 

Zoe’s eyes widen slightly. “That is exactly what he did,” she says, grimacing a little. “Can you fucking imagine? Like, what the fucking hell?”

 

“Exactly,” says Connor, nodding. “That’s a dealbreaker.”

 

Zoe nods, a little firmer this time. “I know, right? I mean, for fuck’s sake.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I kind of went off at Craig for it. It’s completely fucking insane. I mean, what the hell - did Dad, like, promise him livestock, too? How many fucking  _ goats _ am I worth, Craig?” 

 

Connor lets out an involuntary laugh. 

 

That’s still fucking funny. 

 

Zoe shoots him a dirty look, then starts laughing herself. “That sucks,” says Connor, and it genuinely does suck. “Did you talk to Dad?”

 

Zoe shakes her head. “I haven’t yet, no.” She sighs. “It kind of literally just happened, so…”

 

“Okay,” says Connor, nodding. “Do you want me to talk to Dad?”

 

Zoe’s eyes open so wide Connor’s afraid she’s going to hurt herself. “I’m sorry, what?”

 

“Do you want me to talk to Dad?” Connor says again. “I can yell at him for you if you want. Tell him that it should have been fucking obvious that any guy who thinks that asking him for permission is the right move is in no way right for you.”

 

“I can yell at Dad myself,” Zoe says defensively. 

 

“Oh, I know you can,” Connor says. “Obviously. But, like, you know how much I love yelling at Dad.” He shrugs. “Besides, he hates me already, so it’s not like I can cause any more damage on that front.”

 

Zoe blinks. Recoils a little. “Dad doesn’t hate you.”

 

“Really?” Connor says, a little bitterly. “He’s done a bangup job pretending he does all these years. He deserves an Emmy.”

 

“Dad doesn’t hate you,” Zoe repeats, her voice firmer this time. “Sure, he doesn’t  _ get _ you, but he doesn’t hate you.”

 

“I find that hard to believe,” Connor says, and it’s definitely bitter this time. “I was recently told that I don’t actually have anyone in my life who actually cares about me.”

 

He fumbles around in his pocket, trying to find his lighter. 

 

Remembers it disappeared like, half a dozen resets ago. 

 

“You don’t have a lighter by any chance, do you?” he asks his sister. 

 

Zoe blinks. “That’s bullshit.”

 

“So you don’t have a lighter?”

 

“No,” says Zoe, shaking her head. “It’s bullshit that you don’t have anyone in your life who actually cares about you.” She gestures around. “Okay, so sure, I’m pretty certain you don’t even know half of these people, but Andi definitely fucking cares about you.”

 

“Andi likes throwing parties,” Connor points out. 

 

Zoe shakes her head again. “She didn’t just text me or Facebook message me to invite me to this party,” she continues, her voice firm. “She called me. She called me and said that she was throwing you a birthday party and it would mean a lot to you if I came along, and when I said that that was probably bullshit because we barely talk, she said that maybe you actually wanted things to be better between us, you just didn’t know how to start.”

 

Connor feels his eyes start burning. “She’s not wrong,” he mumbles, putting the joint in his pocket. “I have no idea how to make things better between us.” He swallows, hard. Willing himself not to cry, because he hasn’t cried throughout this whole fucking mess and he’s not about to start now. “But I do. Want things to be better.”

 

Zoe looks at him. “Are you okay?” she asks. “This is just… are you okay, is everything okay?”

 

Connor shakes his head. “Not really.”

 

“Is there anything I can do?”

 

He shakes his head again. “No. But thank you.”

 

Zoe bites her lip, then frowns a little. “Look, maybe we could… have coffee this weekend? Catch up?”

 

Connor very, very badly wants to believe that time will progress in such a way that Saturday will eventually arrive and he can have coffee with his sister, but he doesn’t think he can. 

 

But he can’t tell Zoe that. 

 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll text you, okay?”

 

Zoe nods. “Okay.”

 

Connor gestures vaguely. “I should, uh…”

 

“Go mingle,” Zoe suggests with a soft smile. “It’s your party.”

 

“Do you know anyone else here?” Connor feels compelled to ask. “I don’t want to, like, ditch you if you’re here alone.”

 

“I’ll go talk to Andi,” Zoe says. 

 

“Sure,” says Connor. 

 

At least this time he didn’t give Andi a head’s up about Zoe’s recent breakup. 

 

If this reset results in his roommate banging his sister he might just jump out the fucking window. 

 

He wanders around for a moment, looking around the crowd. 

 

It takes him a moment, but he quickly realizes that Richard’s not here. 

 

Which is weird. 

 

He’s been pretty fucking persistent so far. 

 

He heads to his room, where Margot and Eddie are snorting oxy off his Bachelor’s degree. 

 

“Happy Birthday!” says Margot. Connor shuts the door of his room, then sits down next to Margot on the bed, takes a rolled up dollar bill from Eddie and snorts a line of oxy. 

 

Then another. 

 

And then another. 

 

Connor wakes up to the sun shining right in his face. Margot’s spooning him, Eddie’s not wearing any pants and the frame of his diploma is broken. 

 

He remembers waking up like this before. He carefully wriggles out of Margot’s grasp and sits up. 

 

His phone is in his pocket and it’s on two percent battery. 

 

Very slowly, very carefully, he puts it on to charge. 

 

Connor does not get electrocuted. 

 

He gets up, goes to the bathroom. Pees and brushes his teeth. 

 

Decides to risk a shower, based on the fact that he’s still sweaty from sex with Evan even though it didn’t actually happen because they both died and Evan probably definitely hates him now and fuck that guy anyway, because how dare he try to make this whole thing Connor’s fault when it’s so painfully obvious that…

 

It’s so painfully obvious that Evan’s exactly where Connor was, just over nine years ago. 

 

Fuck. 

 

He washes his hair. Conditions it. Uses a sandalwood scented body wash that was in a Christmas present from his mom last year that he’d actually really liked the smell of. 

 

When he gets out of the shower, he wraps a towel around him and, very carefully, heads back to his room, where Margot and Eddie are still passed out on his bed. 

 

He gets changed as quickly as he can. Puts on his jacket. Picks up his phone, which is only at forty percent charge but it’s better than nothing. 

 

Debates downloading Facebook and Messenger so that Evan can contact him again if he needs to. 

 

Fuck that. 

 

Evan knows where he lives. Knows where to find him if wants to, like, apologize or whatever. 

 

Just because they’re both dying doesn’t mean that Evan Hansen is Connor’s problem. 

 

Even when it’s just so painfully obvious that…

 

Connor heads toward the kitchen. There’s a loaf of garlic bread on the kitchen island. 

 

Connor decides not to risk it. 

 

He heads out of the apartment, realizing to himself that it’s midday and he’s never managed to leave his apartment this far into a reset before. 

 

Debates trying to walk down the stairs like a normal person. 

 

Connor decides not to risk it. 

 

He sits on the top stair and shuffles down on his butt. 

 

He’s probably going to ruin his pants like this but he honestly doesn’t care. 

 

When he manages to successfully leave his apartment building, he decides to order a Lyft to the bookstore, even though it would only take half an hour to walk there and that’s usually what he does. 

 

He’s enjoying being alive in the day too much to risk it. 

 

When Connor arrives at the bookstore, it’s one of the newer employees whose name for some reason doesn’t quite stick in his head behind the counter. She recognizes him, though, and smiles widely. “Didn’t think you were working today,” she says. 

 

“I’m here for pleasure rather than business,” he quips. “Thought I’d finally use that employee discount and buy up some books I’ve had my eye on for a while.”

 

“Nice,” she says, nodding. “What’s the occasion?”

 

“It’s my birthday,” he replies automatically. Then he thinks. “Well, it was my birthday yesterday.”

 

She laughs. “Fair enough. I personally also subscribe to the idea of the birthday week.”

 

Connor smiles, a little awkwardly, because she has no fucking idea. 

 

“I would say let me know if I can help you with anything,” she continues, “but it seems pointless, so just… go wild.”

 

The Little Book Nook is a ridiculously twee name for a bookstore, but Connor actually really likes working here. It’s a small business that’s been run by a woman named Gladys and her wife Martha since the late 80s. Martha’s not around much anymore because of her failing health, and Gladys is coming in less and less because she’s looking after Martha, and in all honesty, Connor’s not sure how much longer they’re going to be able to keep the place running. 

 

The two of them used to live above the bookstore in the tiny apartment, but now that they’re older it’s not practical, so currently it’s just being used for storage. The way it’s designed means that it can’t really be rented out to anyone because you’d have to go through the bookstore to leave it. 

 

Sometimes Connor thinks about offering to buy the place. Kind of daydreams about it, actually. He envisages living in the tiny apartment, spending his days running the store and his nights reading or editing, and it all seems kind of nice. 

 

He’s got his trust fund. He could probably afford it if he really, really wanted to. But it would be a lot of work and a lot of effort and he’d have to do book-keeping and manage employees and Evan’s right, he is a slacker. 

 

He could never do it. 

 

He’d probably run the place into the ground in the first month, anyway, and that would just break Gladys’s heart, and he couldn’t do that to her. 

 

Connor browses the shelves and soon has a pile of books he wants to buy. He goes up to the counter and puts them down, and the girl behind the counter whose name he should know rings them up and throws in a tote bag, which Connor thinks is nice of her but also a wise move because even with the employee discount he is spending a lot and if he were any other customer it would be a nice touch, a nice gesture of goodwill. 

 

If he makes it through the day alive, Connor resolves to try to find out her name. 

 

He’s starting to feel cautiously optimistic. 

 

He carries his bag of books out of the bookstore and heads for a nearby diner, realizing that he’s actually fucking starving. It’s not the same diner as the one he and Evan died in however long ago, which is good, but the menu is almost exactly the same. 

 

Connor thinks about ordering scrambled eggs again but instead goes for a burger and fries. 

 

He’s really, really fucking hungry. 

 

It’s getting later in the afternoon. 

 

Connor pulls out a book from his bag and starts reading. 

 

Barely ten minutes later, there’s a burger and fries in front of him. 

 

He focuses on eating and making sure that he’s chewing every bite carefully so he doesn’t fucking choke. 

 

That was not a pleasant way to go. 

 

Not that any of them are. 

 

The diner starts to fill up and Connor realizes that it’s getting darker out, that this is probably the evening rush, and that means that this is the longest he’s survived. 

 

Maybe it’s over. 

 

Maybe it’s finally fucking over. 

 

Connor thinks he should probably leave because the wait staff are giving him dirty looks and he doesn’t really need to order any more food, so he packs up his books and heads out onto the sidewalk outside the diner. 

 

Pulls out his phone and orders a Lyft home. 

 

No need to tempt fate. 

 

He checks his email on his phone while he’s waiting and frowns a little as he realizes that his inbox looks different than usual. 

 

There aren’t any emails from Richard like there usually are. For the last few weeks, there’d been dozens on emails accumulating that Connor hadn’t responded to or even opened. 

 

Connor can feel a buzzing in his head. A ringing in his ears. 

 

Something isn’t right. 

 

He goes to the call history of his phone. 

 

No sign of calls from Richard. 

 

No sign of Richard at all. 

 

Richard wasn’t at the party. 

 

Connor’s about to open up a web page so he can search for Richard McLaren online because there is something fucking weird happening when there’s a screech of metal and a bus with Alana Beck’s face on it flips on its side and slams into Connor hard, pushing him through the window of the diner and there’s blood and pain and a thumping in his head and everything starts to dim as his heart hammers in his chest and-

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at the bathroom wall. 

 

The mirror is gone and somehow the universe might have erased his ex from existence. 

 

There’s a ringing in his ears and he can taste something metallic. 

 

Connor ties up his hair with shaky hands. 

 

Washes his face and his hands. 

 

Heads out of the bathroom past the girl with pink hair and through the crowd of people, which is looking decidedly smaller. 

 

A lot smaller. 

 

There are people missing. 

 

There’s a ringing in his ears. 

 

Instead of going to the kitchen, Connor goes straight to his room, where Margot and Eddie are snorting oxy off his Bachelor’s degree. 

 

He helps himself to a line, then another, then turns to Margot and asks if she’s got anything stronger. 

 

Margot always does. 

 

Connor would call himself more of a drug enthusiast than a drug addict. It’s been a long time since he’s gotten completely out of his mind high but honestly, he thinks he has every fucking right at this particular moment in time. He has no idea what it is Margot’s supplied him with but he snorts line after line and everything’s a blur and it’s drowning out the ringing in his ears and it feels really fucking good and he doesn’t care about dying or people disappearing or the missing mirror or how he can see that someone he once knew is unraveling and he’s not doing anything about it he’s just making it worse and-

 

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 


	15. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They always said you should kill the lawyers first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of prescription medication misuse.

Evan woke up in his bed, his skin feeling somehow too tight and too loose and distinctively grimy, like he hadn’t washed up in weeks, like he had had sweaty sex and then wore the clothes around for days.

He squinted at the clock. It was just after six, and he needed to get up and shower and to take the bar exam. Evan allowed himself five more minutes of watching the numbers on his clock slowly add up and then he lumbered out of his bed, toward the bathroom, keeping in mind that Mattie was asleep so he needed to keep quiet. Evan stepped into the bathroom and switched on the light and something about the room was wrong.

It took a moment to register what was off about the bathroom, but then Evan’s eyes landed on the blank wall above the sink and he realized that the mirror was gone. It was just… gone. The wall was blank, just a bit of wall with eggshell colored paint. Evan backed out of the bathroom quickly, walking to his bedroom where the full length mirror that hung on the back of his door was missing too, and as he stepped into the living room he saw the decorative mirror near the door was also absent.

What the fuck what the fuck?

Knowing it made him a shitty roommate but being too freaked out to care, Evan knocked on Mattie’s door because he had to see if someone else was seeing this, if someone else noticed.

He knocked again after a minute went by without an answer.

Nothing.

His heart going too fast, Evan turned the knob and stepped into the bedroom.

Mattie was not in the bed. The bed was made up, smooth lines and fluffed pillows, nothing like the bedroom of an exhausted brand new doctor. He opened the closet and nothing was in there.

The mirror on Mattie’s door was also missing.

Evan texted Alex, because what the fuck was going on _, “Have you seen Mattie?”_

_Alex responded, “???? Who?”_

_“Our roommate. Mattie. In the middle room? You work together.”_

_“We’ve been letting out the third room on AirBnB since Charlie moved out, what are you talking about?”_

Something was wrong, something was very, very wrong but Evan didn’t have time, he didn’t have any time, because he needed to go pass the bar, every fucking day he had to go pass the bar.

Evan showered and got dressed and popped an Adderall and headed out of the door. He had read studies, and honestly Adderall did fuck all for test performance, but it was habit and Evan knew it was hard to break those because he had never quite managed it.

Evan walked outside and he lit a cigarette. Another nasty, unbroken habit. He picked it up in law school because everyone smoked.

He tried to shut out the part of his brain repeating Connor’s scandalized “you smoke?” from the other night, the other life, because he couldn’t go there he couldn’t let his brain anywhere near that because that was bad that was Bad and if Evan let himself go into that Bad Place he wouldn’t climb out of it this time. He sucked on his cigarette like his life or death or afterlife, whatever, depended on it. When he was finished, careful to avoid letting any ashes spill onto the sidewalk, Evan put the butt into the trash and then headed off for his bus.

He got on his bus at exactly 7:30. This bus did not have Alana Beck’s face on it. Evan arrived at the testing center at 8:36, two minutes later than he had hope, which meant the line for Personal Belongings Room was horribly long and he kept checking and rechecking the time as the fifty four minutes he had to get into his seat dwindled. By the time he managed to get his things put away, Evan had two minutes to take his seat and no time to pee before the exam.

Evan knew maybe that was a problem but he would probably just take this test again and again and againagainagainagain.

Evan breezed through the Constitutional Law section, the questions seeming almost suspiciously easy and straightforward. Evan zoomed through, almost on autopilot, finding that he even had time to go back and check his work.

Routine was an incredible thing. Maybe, eventually, you just became what you did. Maybe Evan was on his way to turning into the bar exam. It might explain why so many people thought he was difficult and avoided interacting with him.

They always said you should kill the lawyers first. Maybe they had started getting to the maybe lawyers.

The proctor called time and Evan straightened his aching shoulders, shook out his hands which had begun to cramp, and realized he was.

Exhausted. Bone tired. Finished. Used up.

He should grab some coffee.

It took almost thirty minutes to get his stuff from the Personal Belongings Room and despite the “no smoking during the bar” rule, Evan walked outside and chain smoked three cigarettes and carefully, watching the sky for rogue terracotta pots, made his way to a Starbucks where he overpaid for a bitter Americano and tried not to think about the ethical and ecological clusterfuck the coffee industry was.

He had time to kill until two o’clock so he had a seat and sipped his bitter coffee when she walked into the Starbucks in a bright yellow jacket. She always liked splashy, loud colors. Next to her, Evan always looked so pale and imitation, like he was the microwaved version of a meal standing next to her five star dish.

Sabrina ordered and she checked her phone and the engagement ring caught the light and blinded Evan for a moment.

He should go and say hello. There wasn’t going to be a fucking tomorrow and it wouldn’t kill Evan to be polite, would it?

He waited for a moment, holding his breath.

It wouldn’t it seemed.

He stood up, and made his way toward her. If his life were a movie he would have some cool line prepared, whip out an inside joke to let her know immediately who he was, but they didn’t have inside jokes, they didn’t share that kind of thing.

Instead, he said, “Sabrina?”

She turned, and then her face changed into her brilliant, blinding smile. The one she gave to strangers or distant acquaintances who she didn’t want to think she was being rude. She downshifted into something genuine after a moment, throwing her arms around him and saying, “Oh my god, Evan! How are you?”

“Good, I’m good,” he said smiling and lying through his teeth. “How are you? Con-congratulations, by the way!”

“Thank you,” She said, smiling down at her brand new ring. “It means a lot, coming from you.”

He tried to smile. “How long are you in the city?”

“Just until the weekend,” She said, nodding. “Graham had to come for work, and I had to burn some vacation days so…” Sabrina turned her head slightly. “How are you really, Evan? We haven’t talked in a while.”

“I’m alright,” He said with a shrug. _I keep dying but that’s not really your problem._ “I’m actually on my break? I’m, like, literally in the middle of the bar.”

“Wow,” She said and she sounded genuinely impressed. Because yeah. He wasn’t sure he would have made it there either. “That’s great, Evan. I hope it’s going well.”

“Thanks.”

Sabrina’s drink appeared at the end of the bar. She took it, looking at him uncertainly, and she probably wanted to make her way out of here, say her goodbyes and go complain to all their old friends about how weird he was to her. He’d deserve it, he had it coming accosting her like this in a Starbucks.

“I’m… I’m really sorry about the way things between us ended,” Evan heard himself say suddenly. “I know now isn’t the time or the place for it, but. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought lately, and you… you deserved better than that. And I’m sorry.”

Sabrina smiled at him, this sad sort of smile. “It was already over between us really. You just… You just told me what we both already knew.”

“You were right though,” he went on. “I… I just want you to know you were right. About me. I… I’m sort of a mess.”

“No Evan,” She said, shaking her head. “I never thought you were a mess. I thought you could use some help, and you never wanted to get that from me.” She smiled again. “You just wanted… to wake up one morning and be fine.”

He swallowed hard because she was right she was precisely right.

“Please take care of yourself, okay?”

“Okay.”

And then Sabrina was gone, her yellow coat and perfect hair and new engagement ring gone with her. He wanted her to fix him, to make him whole and right and normal, but it had never worked out. Things just never worked out.

Evan remembered to check his phone to return his mom’s “good luck!” text with a thank you _._ He was starting to feel as if he had lived too long, suspiciously long, like this was some great big practical joke. He kept waiting for the cameras to appear from behind a bush and announce he had been totally had.

There were never any cameras. At least if the purpose of this was public humiliation there would be a purpose.

Connor hadn’t messaged him. He probably wouldn’t bother in the future. He didn’t want to associate with broken people like Evan. Evan knew he wouldn’t choose himself.

After a pit stop to the bathroom, Evan and his belongings returned to the Personal Belongings Room where they would belong until he was finished taking this test. The second half of his two hundred multiple choice questions, the part he had never quite made it all the way through, the part that smart people, logical and lucid people studied for.

But Evan was winging it.

The questions were long winded and highly detailed and a bit dense and it made his stomach squirm, thinking back to what he had said the other night, the other other night, that simplicity and accessibility sometimes got confused for one another, and shook his head to focus just focus.

Eventually Evan found his rhythm.

_Every evening a bill collector would call the plaintiff every 30 minutes throughout the night. The caller would make threats about collecting the money owed but would also mention personal facts about the plaintiff’s private life, such as the names of his two prior spouses, the names of his children, his prior jobs, a prior lawsuit against him, and many other personal matters. Then packets of mail would arrive with photos indicating that the bill collector was following plaintiff and taking photos of him in his yard, outside with his dog, at family picnics and doing odd jobs around his house, and even inside his house, leading plaintiff to suspect and believe that a micro-video device was planted in his home. The plaintiff felt that nothing was sacrosanct and that the harasser seemed to know everything he did and everything from his past. He finally obtained information on the identity and address of the company engaging in the activities, and sued it for invasion of privacy and violations of federal and state fair debt collections practices acts. With respect to the invasion of privacy tort, will the court grant the motion to dismiss filed by the defendant company?_

The motion to dismiss would be denied. And Evan thought the plaintiff might have had a stalking case on his hands.

_A man purchased a new car with 8 miles on the odometer. In the first week after the purchase, the gas pedal got stuck when depressed, and the car accelerated uncontrollably, eventually crashing into the front of a strip mall jewelry store and killing the cashier. The cashier’s family filed an estate, and sued not only the driver for negligence, but also the automobile manufacturer in strict liability. The manufacturer tried to defend on the basis of having no privity with the cashier. The jury returned a verdict of $3.5 million against the auto manufacturer. The manufacturer appealed, stating that strict liability for a defective product could not be extended to bystanders. Based on the more generally accepted principles of modern tort law, what will the appellate court decide regarding the right of the decedent’s estate to collect from the manufacturer?_

The claim would be allowed because the victim was in the realm of foreseeability.

_A teenaged apprecentice park ranger worked at a State Park over his summer vacation for approximately eight weeks. He was paid the minimum wage his state offered and worked twenty or more hours a week. At the outset of his employment, the teen signed a liability waiver absolving the State Park of any assumption of risk. During the course of his duties he suffered a fall from a forty foot oak tree and broke his left ulna, thus forcing him to wear a cast for the next eight weeks. It is said if a tree falls in a forest and nobody is around to hear it, it doesn’t make a sound. Assuming that, how high of a fall from a tree would it take to kill a seventeen year old in Ellison State Park in August?_

He had to be reading that wrong.

He had to be.

He looked around, confused, because someone else was seeing this, someone else was reading this, someone else had notice that this was wrong this was inappropriate and unethical, right?

_A mentally unstable twenty six year old man was sitting for the bar exam when he was killed several times in various freak accidents…._

Evan turned a page in his exam booklet because he was seeing things, he was imagining this, he was hallucinating…

_A second year law student broke up with his girlfriend after a four year relationship because she suggested he should consider seeking psychiatric care for panic attacks. In this scenario, how would the law determine fault for her subsequent broken heart?_

Evan’s hand shot into the air.

He was going to throw up.

He was absolutely going to throw up, right that second, he was going to puke and he needed an exit pass because you had to have a pass and an escort so they could insure that you hadn’t managed to find a way to cheat while you stress vomited in the men’s room.

One of the people observing the test approached, and Evan whispered, “I’m-I’m… I’m about to be sick.”

He was led out of the room and tried to breathe through his nose, to hold his internal organs as still as humanly possible because any sudden motion, one wrong move, and his overpriced Starbucks was going to end up all over his escort’s crisp linen shirt.

Outside of the bathroom, Evan made a mad dash to the closest toilet, emptying his already empty stomach into the bowl with a horrible retching sound. He stayed there, heaving and gagging until there was truly nothing, nothing left in his body to throw up anymore.

Once he was finished, Evan flushed the toilet and American toilets wasted so much clean water with every flush, and he went to the sink to rinse out his mouth with water.  He spat into the sink and watched horrified as what looked like a pine needle landed and circled the drain.

A pine needle a fucking pine needle he was seventeen and his arm had gone numb from the fall and he had been screaming on his way down, screaming against his own will, and when he landed his mouth was open and he’d had to roll onto his side to spit out a few dead, dry pine needles from his mouth, wipe away the ones that had stuck on his dry lips while he waited for help that wasn’t coming.

Evan rinsed his mouth again and again, each time finding more brown, dead pine pieces. He spat one last time, head drooping, and was brought back to his seat where he kept his head down, nose to the exam paper, ignoring the sudden stabs of pain in his dry mouth or the sudden barbs with questions like _“When someone with a J.D. fails the bar exam and humiliates their entire family and dies, does their family owe that $300,680 debt?”_

And then finally, finally, finally it was five o’clock. They were free to go. The bar was over, it was finally over and Evan was beginning to think, beginning to wonder if maybe he wasn’t going to die today, if he was done, if this was it, if he had cracked it.

He gathered his things from the Personal Belongings Room and pulled on his coat and hat and scarf and set out for his bus stop. The city was pretty in the dying light. Had he bothered to notice before?

The busses that drove past didn’t have rear view mirrors.

That was unsafe.

That was extremely unsafe, Evan thought. He had better take the subway as a precaution. He walked the extra few blocks and gripped the rail tightly, carefully descending the steps, refusing to be swept up in the swiftness of the evening commuters.

He made it to his train platform when someone slammed into him from behind just as the lights of an oncoming train flashed before his eyes and.

   

Evan stood in his bathroom. The sink was running. His mouth tasted like vomit. There was no mirror.

Evan’s left arm felt heavy, a familiar weight, one of gauze and plaster. He looked down fingers groping at his arm, naked skin touching naked skin and he wiggled his fingers frantically and confirmed that he definitely, definitely did not have a cast on his arm.

His phone buzzed.

His mom.

Evan ignored it. Looked at facebook, but Sabrina’s engagement post wasn’t up yet or wasn’t there or… something.

He couldn’t breathe quite right. Time wasn’t moving properly, it was off kilter, it was too fast or too slow it was hard to tell he was lost he was lost in Schroedinger’s box, he was both alive and dead.

Evan was having a panic attack.

And like any responsible adult, once he was calm enough to be sure he wasn’t dying this time, he texted his doctor roommate and asked if she could call in that Valium prescription after all.

_“Done and done. Go pick it up at Duane Reade and stay safe dude.”_

Evan did his best, he did his best, he bundled up properly and tied his shoelaces tight and walked very very carefully to the pharmacy and waited in an uncomfortable chair while the pharmacist put a ninety day supply of pills into a bottle with a child safety cap.

Impulsively, Evan purchased a bottle of Coke and on his walk home he took two Valium and when he got back to his apartment he took two more and two more and then four that time. His heart was still beating too fast, moving too quickly while his blood pumped too slowly and these fucking pills weren’t doing their goddamn job they weren’t working they didn’t work nothing worked nothing had ever worked for Evan, he just needed to fucking relax, Evan needed to fucking relax so he poured out five more pills and then five more and more and more and more until he was out of Coke to drink and his stomach wasn’t sitting right in his body, his throat was rejecting all of the swallowing and Evan dimly wondered if it was because his insides were full of pine needles as his eyelids grew heavier.

 

Evan was in his bathroom with the sink running. His mouth tasted like vomit. And like Coke.


	16. Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A song you don’t recognize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains mentions of blood.

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at the bathroom wall. 

 

Still no mirror. 

 

The room vibrates with a strange, alien humming sound, and as you look around you can see there’s a bathtub in the corner where there wasn’t one before. 

 

It’s a large bathtub. One of those tubs that you could easily fit two people in. 

 

Or a six foot tall teenager who has made a decision. 

 

You can taste metal on your tongue as you swallow nervously, knowing what will happen next. 

 

You will walk out of the room, past a girl with pink hair who will slam the door so quickly it will almost hit your arm. 

 

You will walk into the kitchen, where your roommate is kneading bread dough because every party is an excuse for garlic bread, and she will welcome you to the 27 Club and you will know that you will die again. 

 

The kitchen feels bigger and smaller all at once. 

 

(You do not know this, but Leslie Harvey, guitarist for Stone the Crows, died of electrocution at age 27 in 1972. 

 

At age 27, you have died of electrocution exactly once.)

 

Your roommate will offer you a joint that she is keeping in her bra, and it will smell like patchouli and it will be laced with cocaine, which is not the reason that this keeps happening to you. 

 

You will light the joint and you will see your sister across the room. 

 

And you will remember that you and your sister are a million worlds apart. 

 

That will scare you for a moment, and there will be a heavy feeling in your stomach as you realize that you miss her, you miss the way you were close as children, the way you haven’t been since, and you will think about ways that you can close the great divide between you. 

 

Then you will remember that you are dying. 

 

Over and over again. 

 

And you will remember that your sister saw you almost die once. 

 

And realize that you can’t get close to her, not while things are as they are, because she does not deserve to see you die again. 

 

Even if she wouldn’t remember, it would be too cruel. 

 

You only remember that day in flashes and blurry fragments, but Zoe Murphy remembers it like it was yesterday. 

 

It’s something that time won’t ever erase for her. It’ll always be there, burned into her brain. 

 

It was the week after Thanksgiving of your senior year of high school, Zoe’s junior year. Zoe had a calculus test in the morning and a headache, and once the test was done, instead of going to see the school nurse she decided to skip school for the afternoon. 

 

She drove home and went upstairs and heard the sounds of water, faint but still audible. 

 

No one was supposed to be home, so she opened the bathroom door to investigate.

 

Zoe Murphy didn’t hesitate before calling 911, dragging her brother’s body out of the bath and putting pressure on his wounds. When the ambulance came, they told her she had done well, that she had probably saved his life. 

 

(You do not know this, but Brian Jones, the founder of the Rolling Stones, died of drowning at age 27 in 1969. The coroner’s report stated “death by misadventure”. 

 

At age 27, you have not yet drowned.)

 

You have never discussed what happened that day with your sister. 

 

You think maybe you never will. 

 

You will thread your way through the crowds of people, crowds that are thinner than they once were, and go into your bedroom, where you will find your friend Eddie, snorting oxy off your Bachelor’s degree. 

 

You will ask where Margot is and Eddie will look at you with such confusion that you’ll know. 

You’ll know that whatever this is, whatever force is causing what is happening to you, has swallowed your friend. Blinked her out of existence. 

 

Like your white lighter. 

 

And the mirrors. 

 

And your ex. 

 

Your ex, Richard, who has a husband named James and a son named Sebastian, and those are names you won’t forget any time soon. 

 

You snort a few lines of oxy with Eddie and wonder when you’ll die next. 

 

Wonder how you’ll die next. 

 

(You do not know this, but Roger Lee Durham, singer and percussionist of Bloodstone, died from falling off a horse at age 27 in 1973.

 

At age 27, you have not yet fallen off a horse.)

 

When you wake up, Eddie will be gone, as though he were never even here. 

 

You will check your phone for contact information for Margot and Eddie, who are two of the people you contact most in the world, and you will see that it is not there. 

 

You will see that there are precious few contacts left. 

 

Precious few people who contact you. Who reach out to you. 

 

Who see you. 

 

_ You’re just a fucking slacker who doesn’t actually have anyone in your life who actually cares about you.  _

 

Each time you remember this, you have two thoughts that fight for dominance. 

 

The first is fuck Evan Hansen for saying that shit. 

 

The second is that he is absolutely right. 

 

You will put your phone on to charge and it will not electrocute you, which you will appreciate. 

 

You will go to the bathroom and you will taste metal and smell blood and pee and brush your teeth and take a shower and you will not look at the bathtub because it shouldn’t be there, it can’t be there, you haven’t thought about it in years and you know why you’re thinking about it now but you refuse to let your mind rest on that thought. 

 

You will condition your hair and think about a letter you took from a boy with a cast on his arm, a letter you read over and over again, a letter you kept under your mattress so no one else would find it and kept going back to in moments when things were hard, in moments where it seemed like everything you were feeling would crush you, because it made you think that you were not alone. 

 

You will carefully get out of the shower, dry your hair, wrap yourself in a towel and head back into your room. You will realize how tired you are and put on some soft clothing and crawl back into bed. 

 

Your bed smells like rum and sex and words you can’t take back. 

 

(You do not know this, but Peter Ham, leader of Badfinger, hung himself at age 27 in 1975, just three days before his 28th birthday.

 

At 27, you have not hung yourself and you never will.)

 

When you wake up a second time, you will be somewhat surprised you have lived as long as you have, but you will be horribly, painfully aware that something is not right. 

 

That things are becoming more and more not right as time continues.

 

If time continues on this way, shaky and surreal.  

 

You will stand up, go to your bookshelf and see that all of your books have been replaced by copies of The Bell Jar, and you will think that is completely fucking ridiculous. 

 

(Sylvia Plath died by carbon monoxide poisoning at age 30 in 1963, making her three years shy of the 27 Club. 

 

You know how Sylvia Plath died, but you do not remember how young she actually was.)

 

There is a buzzing in your head and a ringing in your ears and you are not sure what comes next. 

 

You will put on a jacket and some shoes and leave your apartment, walking down the stairs even though you have only survived this a fraction of times. 

 

Perhaps you are hoping to die again. 

 

Perhaps you are tired of waiting for the inevitable. 

 

Somehow, you will survive. You will leave your apartment and walk to the liquor store, and pick up your bottle of expensive whisky. There will be no one else in the store and your conversation with Andre, who you have known for years, will be short and impersonal. 

 

You will take your bottle of whisky and sit at a bus stop as the sun sets, quicker than it should. 

 

It flies across the sky at almost record speed, flooding the world with pinks and oranges. 

 

The light will hit Otis across the road, playing his guitar. The same sad but hopeful sound that makes you feel like you understand being human. 

 

Except that you don’t. 

 

And you never have. 

 

And you never will. 

 

Because nothing makes any sense and the idea of understanding anything is laughable. 

 

You will look both ways before you cross the street. 

 

A bus will drive by. 

 

A bus with no face on it. 

 

In your head, you will apologize to Alana Beck for inadvertently erasing her from existence. 

 

No doubt she will find that extremely frustrating, as she clearly has things to do. 

 

You will cross the street and approach Otis, who will not address you or acknowledge you in any way. 

 

He is lost in the music and he is content. 

 

You are lost and you could not be further from contentment. 

 

You will sit next to Otis and listen as he plays his guitar. 

 

He will play a song you don’t recognize that is almost like a folk ballad, and it tells a story of two lonely people who are trapped in their own heads, who no one can hear, who want to reach out but can’t quite figure out how, and how one of them grew up to forge their own path and do what they want, regardless of who it hurts, while another is crumbling under pressure and expectations and stress and while they never connected, not really, the first person wants to save the second but doesn’t know how. 

 

It is a song you don’t know but somehow you recognize.

 

You don’t think you can save anyone because you don’t know if you saved yourself, in the end. You know that if things had been different, if your sister hadn’t skipped school that day, you would be long dead instead of dying over and over again with a guy you barely know from high school. 

 

But you know that you haven’t felt that way in a very long time. 

 

That you don’t want to die.

 

That dying over and over again is painful and terrifying and that while you can’t help but think that the only way out of this cycle is a permanent death, every time you hear someone knock on the door and realize you are back in your bathroom, there is something inside of you that sighs in relief. 

 

Otis will keep playing guitar and you will sit there until the sky turns dark. 

 

It happens quickly. 

 

You start coughing. There is something sharp in your throat. 

 

You keep coughing, and coughing and coughing, and you can feel that sharpness intensify, and something ripping in your throat, and you realize in horror that you are coughing up a razor blade, the same one you used in the bathtub over nine years ago, and it killed you then and it is killing you now and you can see your sister, hovering over you, face white with fear, screaming your name, and you’re wet and your wrists hurt and everything is fading around the edges..

 

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare die on me, you fucking asshole. You have to hold on. You have to hold on, Connor!”

 

Connor stares at the bathroom wall. 


	17. Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do better tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please make sure you've read the tags carefully before reading this chapter.

There is no mirror. The mirrors are gone and I’m stuck guessing what sort of ugly expression I’m wearing. I know it’s unattractive and unsettling because Sabrina once told me when I am confused I look angry and I still believe her because she is usually right. 

My phone buzzes for a moment and then stops, sooner than it normally would and it scares me enough to call her back right away. Not her too, not her too, not her, anybody else please not her. 

The phone rings and rings and rings and goes to voicemail, to “Hi you’ve reached Heidi Hansen. I’m not able to take your call, but please let me a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a good day.”   


My voicemail is practically identical. I spent the first month of law school thinking I needed something more professional but never committing. 

I struggle to commit to things. Except the big stuff. I can take on three hundred thousand, six hundred and eighty dollars in debt without breaking a sweat but changing a voicemail? Cue a breakdown. 

I’m laughing, I realize, but this isn’t funny. I call mom again and again and she keeps not answering. 

She’s probably gone, like the mirrors and Mattie and Mr. Abrahamson. She’s gone like the cat we had when I was six who went to an unseen farm in the country, gone like a father in a Uhaul headed for Denver. 

I pace my bedroom. Four steps across, turn, four steps across.

I debate messaging Connor. Maybe I should have gotten his number, committed it to memory like a long lost flashcard  _ (3 x 4 = 12, the capital of Delaware is Dover, ich heiße, du heißt, er/sie/es heißt, wir heißen, ihr heißt, sie/Sie heißen, the 25th Amendment to the United States Constitution outlines presidential succession).  _

Oh except fuck Connor. 

Oh except I already did that. 

Fuck. 

Maybe I should go… find a rabbi. It’s about the only thing I haven’t tried. I doubt a rabbi could do much, but it might be nice to see someone with a beard and a reassuring belief in something. 

That’s sexist, I scold myself. Women can be rabbis. And Hebrew was gendered but there were ways to tweak it, so nonbinary folks could probably be rabbis too. I don’t know any rabbis, men, women, enby. 

I don’t know anybody. 

Sabrina used to tell me that she didn’t know me, that I was like a safe and the combination was uncrackable. What I never told her was that I had lost that combination intentionally, buried it deep buried it in a place so unplottable and dark that even I couldn’t find it. 

Turns out it was quicksand because it had bubbled to the surface anyway, the earth barfing it up and the pressure of it all breaking down the structural integrity and now his secrets were spilling all over, a flood of resentments and shame. 

I can’t do this. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep stewing here in this insanity. 

I need a drink.

I drink too much. Alone. And smoke too much (which is ever, whatever). Also alone. I scam prescriptions for ADHD medication off of my roommates and study obsessively and I’ve been told my posture is “upsetting.” 

I am a smorgasbord of faults. A buffet of fuck ups. 

I miss my mom and wish she would call me back even though I know she’s gone, I’ve made her go like I’ve made everyone in my life go.

I need a drink. 

I need to go to the liquor store. 

I’ll probably die but I don’t care because in the grand scheme of things alcohol > living. I decide I’ll buy vodka because rum has not done me any favors lately. Just another liquor where the burn is mostly regret. 

When I pass the bar and become a lawyer I can get shitfaced on a Tuesday night every week because I’ll be successful, I’ll have done it, and nobody will be able to say a goddamn word. Nobody can judge you when you make something of yourself. You never hear anybody making fun of Alana Beck for community board. I want that level of untouchability. 

If they can’t touch you they can’t hurt you. 

That’s what I always say. 

...That’s bullshit. I don’t say anything. 

It’s cold on the way to the liquor store, and I think maybe I’ve caught a snowflake on my tongue but this is New York and honestly it’s probably just… soot or dandruff. There are too many people in this city, why on earth did I come here? I should have opened a practice in Mississippi or something, a place with no lawyers or laws. 

I wanted to be a zookeeper when I was little. 

Or a racecar driver. 

I’m not bold enough for anything like that. My boldness expires fast, usually spent on things like purchasing a large bottle of clear liquor and drinking it too quickly. 

I make it to the liquor store without dying and that feels like… Christmas. I don’t actually know what that feels like, my mom and I didn’t do Christmas and my dad had tried to get us to do it once but it was something of a bust because being a Jewish kid, I didn’t buy the Santa lie just because I was sleeping over at dad’s “temporary” new place. 

The thing was I had wanted him to tell me the lie. I wanted to be a part of that, to tell my fellow second graders all about what Santa brought me even though it was fake. I wanted to be included and it never worked out for me. 

But I assume Christmas is like… an expected surprise. Like happiness and spontaneous delight, but scheduled. 

I would be so down with scheduling spontaneity. It would make me so much happier I think if I could always plan ahead. 

I think that’s why I like the idea of practicing law so much. Sure, sometimes you get thrown into the deep end without water wings, but mostly it’s taking months to research and plan and expect every move your opponent might make. 

I’m inspecting the liquor bottles, because making it here has made me feel buoyant and light, a helium balloon drifting and bumping my way along the ceiling. I don’t want rum, I don’t want whiskey. I debate being a basic white girl and getting like UV Blue or something, something that’ll rot my guts but taste awesome on the way down.

Eventually I do pick up a bottle of vodka. I’m feeling pretty good about this choice, because I like vodka, but then some clearly underage dude bumps me and then I knock a bottle of rum off of the display with my elbow and it crashes to the floor, loud crack, hard glass, splatter. 

And something in my head aligns suddenly, like a bolt of understanding, like an electric shock. 

Connor had been here. 

That first night that night I’m drinking to forget, I was here, I was here and so was Connor and I need to tell him I have to go and tell him we were here we were together but not really -

I can’t tell Connor. 

I can’t tell Connor because Connor knows too much Connor won’t forget that he saw straight through me.

I can’t tell Connor. 

Instead I go to the counter and pay and apologize to the cashier, explaining that a nineteen year old dudebro had made a mess and he scowls and grabs a broom and I make my exit. 

I stroll through the park on my way home because fuck it, right? Fuck it all. I figured something out and I have nobody to tell and this vodka is keeping me warm.

A busker is playing in the park and this city has noise codes but he’s not being loud or disruptive, he’s just playing something pretty. I stop a while, listening to him, and fish out a couple of dollars to put in his case. He looks up at me. I try to smile. 

“You need to shave,” he tells me point blank.

I do. He’s right. I haven’t in a long time. I’ve probably forgotten how. 

“I figured something out,” I tell the busker. “But I can’t tell him because he hates me.”

“Maybe it would be easier if you shaved,” he says. 

I nod. That is a very good point.

I take a swig of some vodka and hold it out to him. He swallows some. We pass the bottle back and forth a few times. Tells me that once a rich kid gave him some twenty five year old whisky and I nod like I believe him. 

Because I can tell he wants to lie to me and he wants me to lie to him back. 

“Have a good night,” I say and I head toward home, realizing how light my vodka bottle has gotten in such a short time, thinking about alcohol poisoning and this old episode of  _ Grey’s Anatomy _ I watched with my mom once when we both had the stomach flu and this woman kept hurting herself so she wouldn’t fail the bar again and maybe I’m that woman, I’m in an episode of  _ Grey’s Anatomy _ only none of the doctors are as hot as the doctors on the show. 

I go home and crawl into bed and set several extra alarms. Because if I live until tomorrow morning I will have the distinct pleasure of retaking the bar. 

The alarm is too loud. I’m hungover. Or just nauseated. That’s sort of my signature move, feeling sick to my stomach. I get up and puke in the bathroom and rinse my mouth out with mouthwash because you can’t get your enamel back once you lose it. 

Can you actually get anything back once you’ve lost it? 

Like lost socks and lost money, probably not. 

I wonder what all this dying is doing to my enamel. I’m going to have the dental health of someone with bulimia if my teeth aren’t resetting like my bones are.

Ha. Dental health. 

...I’m still drunk. 

I shower the vodka sweat away and take the time to shave my face because a busker told me I needed to last night and I am a Good Kid who likes doing what he’s told. My razor swipes sharply against my cheek and I don’t slip and accidentally on purpose slit my throat, and I feel like that’s a win for me honestly. 

I wonder about my lungs while I smoke my way through a habitual morning cigarette and if they reset like my bones or suffer the damage of each death like my teeth might and there are no answers because there are never any answers and get on my bus. I’m even later than I want to be and I almost just ditch my phone and jacket outside of the damn Personal Belongings Room because I’ll just wake up in the bathroom and find them when I die next. But the line is a lot shorter today, the whole building is a lot emptier, fewer haggard twenty somethings with their thinking caps on clogging up the bathroom lines and hogging all the oxygen. 

This isn’t right. This isn’t right. 

I pee and wash my hands and crack my neck and there’s no mirrors in the bathroom to practice a confident smile in so I just don’t bother. It’s exam time. Time to get this over with and probably fail because I’m seasick on dry land and maybe still a little drunk.

I’ll do better tomorrow. 

But then again I always say that. 

I walk to the exam room. But it isn’t a room at all. It’s a gate like the one outside of Ellison Park, the big metal one that they open and close every night. And there’s no security or proctors, just a seventeen year old kid in apprentice ranger khaki with a name tag that hangs slightly askew and reads “EVAN.”

“Are you ready?” he asks me and whatever this is, I am most certainly not. He opens the gate and I follow and there are no desks or test packets or pencils, just a dirt path through a forest growing thicker and darker with each step. 

I follow him anyway. 

Really, aren’t I always following him?

“I don’t like the meds Dr. Sherman has me on,” He says to me, walking a little ahead. His shoulders are so hunched, that must be so uncomfortable. I want to press on the vertebra and force him to straighten them out. “They make me spacey.”

“I know,” I tell him. Because I know. Because I flushed them when I was eighteen. I know better now. That can contaminate the water supply and suddenly you have bass loaded up with SSRIs and the masses aren’t sure how to control it. 

“We’re almost there,” he tells me. 

“You have to be careful,” I say because it feels irresponsible not to say it. I’m the adult after all. I’m the adult here. 

“So do you,” He says, shrugging. “We’re here.”

It’s a beautiful oak. Well over forty feet. Evan and I weren’t so great with guessing heights before. The tree is gorgeous. Perfect for climbing. Strong, steady branches reaching skyward, with layers upon layers of lush green leaves all soaking up the sun. Sunbathing really. Evan never really tanned much, but as a kid I remembered my mom saying to us that we were like a cat with the way we curled up and napped in the sun. 

“I don’t want to do it alone,” he tells me. 

I agree that we’ll do it together. 

I’m out of practice. Rusty. My hands are too soft now, and with each new branch I conquer I miss the ground more. My palms blister and the blisters break, staining the wood like raindrops or tears. 

“I don’t want to do it alone,” Evan repeats. “Last time…”

“I know. I remember.”

We keep climbing until we can’t until we run out of branches, until we’re scanning the tree line and from here I can see all of the desks, hidden away, everyone working diligently. 

“I have to pass this test,” I try to explain. “It’s important to us.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Evan says and he looks so young and so terrified and there is a cast on his arm, white and awkward and blank, nothing written on it, nobody to sign it. 

“We don’t have to. We don’t have to do this anymore.”

He cradles his arm to his chest and looks at me with these big, wide eyes, and we’re out of the woods somehow, we’re standing on a rooftop and the sounds of the city filter in like white noise. Evan looks at me sadly and says, “But you do.”

He reaches out with his good arm and pushes me, hard, hard enough that I lose my balance and I’m plummeting, soaring toward the earth. I land hard, the wind knocked out of me, my arm going numb. I look around and there’s nobody coming to get me, nobody at all, and I taste blood and there are pine needles stuck to my lips. 

 

Evan was in his bathroom. His mouth tasted like vomit. The sink was running. His phone did not buzz. Evan had to take a moment to gather himself and wipe his eyes. 

Connor had been right. He had been right about it all. 

Evan had thrown himself off of the roof of his building during their first loop. 

And it was his fault they were stuck like this. 

He had to go tell him.

 


	18. Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mutually assured destruction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the tags and take care of yourselves.

No one is knocking on the door. 

 

It’s silent. Like someone has muted the entire world. 

 

Connor takes a moment, trying to get his shaking hands under control. He looks around the room, and the bathtub is still in the corner. 

 

He leaves the bathroom as quickly as he can. 

 

The living room is empty, completely devoid of furniture, but there’s music playing and two women are slow dancing to a song Connor doesn’t know. 

 

It takes him a moment to realize it’s Andi and Zoe. 

 

They don’t see him for a long moment. Then Andi turns to Connor and smiles. 

 

“Welcome to the 27 Club!”

 

Connor turns around slowly, taking in the room that’s emptier than he’s ever seen it. 

 

When he completes his turn, Andi is gone. 

 

Zoe stands in front of him, her face white, her hands stained muddy brown. 

 

“You saved my life,” Connor says quietly. “That day. You saved me and I never thanked you.”

 

“I didn’t do it for thanks,” Zoe says, her voice broken. “I did it because you’re my brother and I love you. Because it was the right thing to do.”

 

“I didn’t deserve it.” He sighs. “The universe seems to think I don’t deserve it. I keep dying, over and over again, and I can’t stop it.”

 

Zoe takes his hand. “You won’t remember this,” she says. “But in the ambulance, I thought I lost you. I came with you and you stopped breathing and they hooked you up to a machine and I was so fucking scared.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“And the paramedic said that you were strong,” Zoe continues. “That you were a fighter. And it just made me think that all we ever did was fight, all we ever  _ do _ is fight and of course you’re a fighter, why would I ever doubt you were a fighter when that’s all you ever did?”

 

“Zo, I’m-”

 

“I’m a fighter, too,” she interrupts him. “But you know that, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah,” says Connor hollowly. “Yeah, I do.”

 

“Just because we’re both fighters,” says Zoe softly, “does that have to mean that we’re at war? Can’t we fight on the same side? Like we did when we were kids?”

 

Connor doesn’t know. 

 

“I’m so tired,” he says, instead. 

 

Zoe reaches out. Tucks his hair behind his ear. “I know you are.”

 

“I love you,” Connor says, because he thinks it needs to be said. “I always have and I always will. I’m just shit at showing it.” He laughs. “I’m kind of shit in general, honestly.” Has 

 

“Yeah,” Zoe concedes. “But we all are. Everyone’s got their shit.”

 

“I don’t want to die anymore,” Connor tells her. 

 

Zoe chuckles a little. Her eyes fill with tears. “I can’t tell you how fucking good it is to hear you say that.”

 

“There’s someone I think needs my help,” Connor says hesitantly. “But I don’t know how. I don’t know what to do.”

 

“Don’t give up,” Zoe says simply. “That’s what it comes down to.” She takes his hand and squeezes it. “After everything, I never gave up on you. Even when things were bad. Even when you were screaming at me and yelling at me and we were at each other’s throats… I never gave up on you. Not really.”

 

There’s a knock on the door. 

 

Connor goes to open it. 

 

Evan Hansen is standing in front of him. 

 

They take each other in for a moment. 

 

Evan sighs. “Can we talk?”

 

Connor pulls him inside immediately. He turns to tell Zoe that he needs to talk to Evan in private, only to realize the room is empty. 

 

Zoe’s gone. 

 

Helpless, he turns back to Evan, who is pale and drawn and shaking. 

 

“It’s my fault,” says Evan in a rush. “This whole thing is my fault.” 

 

“It’s not,” Connor feels compelled to say, because even though it’s painfully obvious that Evan is suffering, it’s painfully obvious that he needs help, it’s not Evan’s fault. 

 

“No, it is, you don’t-”

 

“Evan. It’s not-”

 

“I jumped.”

 

* * *

 

“Can we talk?” Evan asked because, well, how else did you start this conversation. It had taken everything, everything out of him to come here, to admit this and if he didn’t get it out now he never would. 

Connor looked behind him, like he was going to excuse himself from a conversation only to discover his partner had vanished. Maybe that had happened. Evan had only just gotten here. Connor’s place was empty, eerily so, no piles of party goers in corners. Just Connor in a barren living room, looking around helplessly. 

He was falling apart right here, right in front of Connor because this was on him, this was his fault, he never got himself fixed he insisted he could do it all himself and look where it got them both. “It’s my fault,” he said, like if he said it fast it would hurt less, like ripping off a bandaid. “This whole thing is my fault.”

Connor’s face falls. “It’s not.”

“No, it is, you don’t-” 

Connor interrupted. “Evan. It’s not -”

“I jumped,” Evan said and it hurt, it hurt, it made his bones ache and his heart squeeze painfully. His hands shook, everything shook, he was a one man earthquake. “I jumped. Off the roof of my building. I killed myself. That’s… that’s how I died the first time, that’s what started all of this, so it’s my fault, alright? I did this to you, to both of us. I did this.”

“You didn’t,” Connor said and his voice is kind and soft like a kindergarten teacher’s when you screw up and can’t remember how to tie your shoes right. “This is not your fault, Evan, believe me.”

Evan didn’t believe him. He couldn’t believe him. “No, you see, it’s my fault because I… I was in the liquor store and I couldn’t, just, decide what to buy. It was too much and I couldn’t imagine taking the second half of the bar and Sabrina was engaged and I saw you in the liquor store but I was paralyzed, I couldn’t do anything couldn’t just fucking  _ pick _ something, and I realized that… that I am always going to be this way. That there’s no getting over that kind of thing. And then the bottle slipped out of my hands and it broke on the floor. And then at least that was over, at least the bottle didn’t have to worry about not breaking anymore and I thought… I just thought…” He shook his head, because he couldn’t make the words happen. “So, I went home and I killed myself.”

 

* * *

The words are spilling out of Evan like hot lava and from the look on his face, they’re just as painful. There is an ache in Connor’s chest that won’t go away.

 

Something clicks in his memory. 

 

A figure in a warm looking jacket, a hat and a scarf, standing still and staring at a bottle of rum on the shelf. 

 

A mess of rum and glass on the floor and a flood of apologies.

 

“I remember seeing you in the liquor store,” he says quietly. “I… I didn’t know it was you. But if I’d know it was you then I could have-”

 

“No,” Evan interrupts firmly. “No, that’s bullshit, this is on me.”

 

Connor shakes his head. “I could have talked to you, I could have-”

 

“This is on me,” Evan says again, stronger this time. “This whole thing is my fault and I’m sorry I dragged you into it.” He laughs bitterly. “Fuck. I’m just so… I’m so much of a fucking mess that it’s contagious, that just by seeing you that night I’ve fucking ruined your life-”

 

“You haven’t ruined my life,” Connor feels compelled to say. “You… fuck, you have no idea, you-”

 

Evan’s eyes narrow a little. “Please don’t spin some bullshit about how because we had sex now we’re something we’re not, because that was just sex and it was probably a mistake anyway and-”

 

“I slit my wrists in the bathtub,” Connor interrupts. Evan goes silent. “In senior year of high school,” he continues. “Just after Thanksgiving. I was… things were bad, and I was in a really fucking dark place, and I thought about killing myself for months before that. Months.” Connor swallows hard, remembering the feel of the razor blade in his throat, sharp and hot and painful. “And on the first day of school, you wrote a depressing letter to yourself and I took it and at first I was pissed off because I thought you were fucking with me, but later that day I read it, and… it made me feel less alone.”

 

Evan looks… hurt, almost. “Connor, that’s-”

 

“ _ I wish that everything was different _ ,” says Connor, quoting the letter that’s burned into his brain, even now. “ _ I wish I was part of something. I wish that anything I said mattered, to anyone. I mean, face it: Would anyone notice if I just disappeared tomorrow? _ ” He swallows again. “I felt that. In my gut. Knowing that someone else felt like that was… well, it wasn’t good, I didn’t  _ like _ it, but at least it wasn’t just me, you know?”

 

* * *

“ _I wish that everything was different_ ,” Connor said and it wasn’t mocking it wasn’t cruel, it was like someone who repeated a song lyric that they didn’t like but couldn’t let go of. “ _ I wish I was part of something. I wish that anything I said mattered, to anyone. I mean, face it: Would anyone notice if I just disappeared tomorrow? _ ”

Evan could feel his fingers on the keys, typing out those words. His mom had called to tell him she was stuck at work and he would have to make his own way to therapy, something he didn’t even want to bother with on the first day of senior year. He had gone into the day with some sort of delirious optimism, thinking, yeah, he could do this. He could talk to people. He could make this year count, make himself normal, fit himself in just… somewhere, anywhere, with his awkward laughs and broken arm and tree related bragging. 

It didn’t work. It didn’t work at all. He got steamrolled by Alana Beck’s stories of an internship-filled summer and a dead grandmother and then there was Jared, fucking Jared who was such a dick in high school, who twisted every single thing Evan did or said into some kind of pathetic joke, and then Evan was trapped with Connor Murphy because he laughed at something that he shouldn’t have laughed at and wound up shoved to the floor, hands coated in dust, trying not to think about a bed of pine needles he had landed in not so long before. 

This Connor, the one standing in front of him on his twenty seventh birthday for the umteenth time, looked drained, looked worn out, like he was sagging against the weight of his own words. “I felt that. In my gut. Knowing that someone else felt like that was… well, it wasn’t good, I didn’t  _ like _ it, but at least it wasn’t just me, you know?”

But it was just him. 

Because Evan never spoke to him after he took that letter in high school. He walked around with an arm that read “CONNOR” and never said a word because he was so convinced anything he said would only make it worse, would only hurt more. 

And Evan let Connor go on without saying anything and then Connor disappeared from school for about a month and he never said a word because he was too afraid of what might happened if he spoke to Connor, if he reached out...

And Evan was still fairly certain he was right about that. Look what happened when they had crossed paths this time. This was his fault, he knew it, it was the realization he had been avoiding all along. But maybe it reached back further than this whole shitty situation, maybe Evan had started this when he was seventeen and scared and for one short moment let himself be vulnerable enough to say something real.

Only to put it in the hands of another vulnerable person. 

There was no solidarity in that kind of thing, only mutually assured destruction. 

Evan took a breath, shallow and ragged. “I’m so sorry,” he said because that was all he could say. “I never meant for you to read that, for  _ anyone  _ to see that. I’m a mess and I didn’t want anyone to know and I’ve… I’ve become this thing now, this thing and I can’t seem to get out and I’m dragging you into it. It’s not fair, you don’t deserve this.”

“Evan, look at me,” Connor said, his voice coming out a lot stronger. “Neither do you.”


	19. Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysterious and arbitrary.

“I’m so sorry,” says Evan, and it’s making Connor’s chest ache because if there is one thing he’s never wanted an apology for, it’s  _ this. _ “I never meant for you to read that, for  _ anyone  _ to see that. I’m a mess and I didn’t want anyone to know and I’ve… I’ve become this thing now, this thing and I can’t seem to get out and I’m dragging you into it. It’s not fair, you don’t deserve this.”

 

“Evan, look at me,” Connor says, trying to make sure the words have the weight they need. “Neither do you.”

 

Evan chokes out a laugh that might be a sob and doesn’t look at him. “But I do. I…”

 

Connor has always been someone who reacts. 

 

Who jumps into things, who does things without thinking, who doesn’t sit back and calculate and try to figure out the potential consequences of his actions. Admittedly, it doesn’t always work out well, and most of the time he could use a little forethought, but there are moments where his tendency to react, to act by instinct, serves him well. 

 

He doesn’t know if this is one of those moments, but he gives in to his instincts anyway. 

 

He pulls Evan into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around him and holding onto him tightly, and hopes that this helps somehow, that this makes Evan feel like he’s not alone, the way Evan’s letter made Connor feel all those years ago, and it’s probably stupid and he probably should have asked first because this is more intimate than watching each other die, than fucking in Connor’s room while drunk on rum, than the subsequent argument where they calculatedly ripped strips off each other, trying to expose the weak spots hidden not so deep under the surface. 

 

Connor can feel Evan tense up, but after a moment Evan hugs him back, and he is shaking and Connor thinks it might be because he’s sobbing and this isn’t an action that means much in the grand scheme of things, compared to everything they’ve been through, but if it makes the tiniest bit of difference then Connor’s glad he did it. 

 

Connor didn’t grow up in a family of huggers. Not really. His mom, sometimes, but mostly when he was a kid. When he visits his mom at holidays, she’ll hug him in greeting, but he doesn’t visit that often. The person who hugs him most at the moment is Andi, who’ll hug pretty much anyone, and gives vice-like hugs that are a little too tight and a little too enthusiastic but very, very Andi. 

 

He doesn’t have a death-grip hug like Andi, and he really hasn’t had much feedback on his hug ability over the years, aside from the occasional complaint that he is too bony, too angular, too sharp to really give the best hugs that heal the soul properly, so he is aware that this is probably not enough, but it is all he has to offer right now. 

 

Evan doesn’t move to pull away for a long time. 

 

He just shakes silently and Connor feels his shirt getting wet and a steadily increasing rock in his chest because it’s painfully obvious that Evan’s crying but it’s quiet, it’s so quiet, and that’s just confirmation that he’s been hiding so long that it’s automatic now, that he sobs silently because he doesn’t want anyone to hear him, and when you’re quiet it’s harder to notice you, and when people don’t notice you, they don’t notice when you disappear. 

 

When Evan does finally pull away, it’s a sharp, jerky movement, like he’s suddenly realized what’s happening and has to get out. 

 

“I am so sorry,” Connor says before he can speak. “I am so sorry that you felt like you had no other option that night. And I’m sorry that I threw it in your face the other night… which was also that night, and tonight as well.” He chuckles a little. “Time is weird.”

 

“I’m sorry you felt like that, too,” says Evan, rubbing at his face like he’s trying to erase all signs of having fallen apart. Connor knows it doesn’t work like that. “And I’m sorry that you had to read what I wrote-”

 

“Please don’t apologize for that,” Connor interrupts sharply. “It… it meant a lot to me, okay? So don’t… don’t apologize for the letter.”

* * *

 

It had been a long time since Evan had gotten a hug like that. A long, long time. It almost… hurt. It ached. It hollowed him out and then he was unraveling, he was just crying. 

Evan did not like to cry. He hated it. He avoided it as much as he could. Sometimes it ambushed him. A Google comercial, a song, and then bam, tears. 

But Evan hated it. 

And he hated that the smallest act of kindness, something as simple as a hug just untethered him. 

Evan broke. He just broke, tears flowing, body shaking and Connor just held onto him. He held onto Evan, not too tight, just something solid and real and reassuring and it was overwhelming and Evan felt like he was going into a feedback loop of sadness and gratitude and it took a long time before he was able to stop. It was not tidy or small or as quiet as he tried to keep these small breakdowns, these tiny collapses. And he had done it in front of someone. 

It was embarrassing. He pulled away, fast. How could he have let this happen?

Evan rubbed his hand over his face, trying to scrub out the evidence of this tearful, shameful break. 

He didn’t want to look at Connor. He couldn’t look at him and see the pity in his eyes. He opened his mouth to apologize to let him know how sorry he was for letting all of this happen, all of it. 

“I am so sorry,” Connor said. 

Evan wanted to tell him not to be sorry, not to apologize, it wasn’t his fault… 

But Connor kept speaking, “I am so sorry that you felt like you had no other option that night.” But he had other options, they were just too hard, too much, too heavy. He couldn’t pick those options because they all had led him to that rooftop, to that tree. “And I’m sorry that I threw it in your face the other night… which was also that night, and tonight as well.” He laughed softly, his face twisting like he was sort of amused and horrified all in one. “Time is weird.”   


“I’m sorry you felt like that, too,” Evan said. Because he was. Because he didn’t want anyone to feel like that… To have made anyone feel that way. “And I’m sorry that you had to read what I wrote-”   


“Please don’t apologize for that,” Connor interrupted, his tone firm and unwavering. It was serious, like he meant this, like he really needed Evan to hear it.  “It… it meant a lot to me, okay? So don’t… don’t apologize for the letter.”

It was a difficult thing for someone to ask of him. Because Evan’s constant state was apology. Because he was sorry, he was so sorry to have written it to have let those words out in the world. He regretted it so much, he regretted everything from back then until now, because it was all colored by the constant sense that he was failing. He had been failing for so long that he could only succeed by succeeding and succeeding until it blotted out the failure. 

It was exhausting. Evan felt exhausted. He wiped his face again, like he could rub out the emotions, tuck them neatly away. But it was all out on the table now, it wasn’t something he could take back. 

Evan couldn’t take it back, couldn’t take any of it back. 

“Thank you,” He said eventually, because when someone is kind you thank them. He grabbed at Connor’s hand, giving him the kind of tight squeeze that he had gotten in the past, a half remembered moment where he knew he wasn’t alone. He wanted to give that back to Connor. “I… just thank you.”

Connor gave him a smile and Evan didn’t deserve it but he accepted it. Maybe it was time he learned to just take the good things given to him. 

It didn’t sound especially likely but it was a nice thought. 

Evan didn’t have so many of those, honestly. 

“So. What now?” Evan asked.

* * *

 

 

“I don’t know,” Connor says. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

 

Because that is a thing that he can do. It’s stupid and it’s meaningless but maybe it will help. 

 

Evan looks a bit taken aback, but then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

 

Evan lets Connor lead him into the kitchen, which is eerily quiet. Connor goes to the cabinet and pulls out a glass, then fills it with water from the tap and hands it to Evan. 

 

As Evan drinks his glass, Connor pours himself one. 

 

Hydration is probably important. 

 

“You said you were killed by a bus the first time?” Evan says after a moment. 

 

“Yeah,” Connor says, nodding. “One of the Alana buses. Not too long after I left the liquor store.”

 

Evan kind of nods. “You were talking to the cashier,” he says, as if he’s remembering. 

 

“His name is Andre,” Connor tells him. “We went to college together. Both studied English Literature. He was way better at it than I was, honestly. Really brilliant, had some amazing insights.” Connor has a gulp of water and continues. “He should have gone on to do his Masters and PhD and done the whole full on academia thing. He wanted to do it, but then his girlfriend got pregnant and so now he works at a liquor store.” Connor nods to himself. “Their daughter is four, her name is Celeste and she prefers Peppa Pig to Proust.”

 

Evan laughs, like that’s funny, and Connor smiles. “Proust is French, though,” Evan points out, and Connor rolls his eyes. 

 

“Fine. Whatever.”

 

They both kind of laugh awkwardly. 

 

“So,” says Evan after a moment. “We probably died at the same time. That first time.”

 

“All the times after, too,” Connor says. “At least, I think so. It makes sense.” He shrugs. “Weirdly, we’re connected.” Before Evan can say anything, he jumps in. “It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. The universe is just… mysterious and arbitrary.”

 

“I was going to say,” says Evan a little ruefully, “that if we’d recognized each other that first time, stopped and talked to each other, then maybe none of this would have happened.”

 

Connor looks at Evan carefully. “That’s… I don’t think we can know that,” he says quietly. “And you… look, I’m an asshole, and I was an asshole that night, just in general. Like, I bailed on my birthday party and ignored my sister and drank expensive whisky on the side of the road instead of, like, talking to anyone. I wouldn’t have…” Connor doesn’t want to admit this, but he thinks it’s true. “Fuck, I would have just been like ‘oh, right, kid from high school, see you later, I’ve got whisky to drink’. I wouldn’t have… it wouldn’t have stopped you. I wouldn’t have been able to see past my own shit to help you.”

 

“Yeah,” says Evan hollowly. “Yeah.”

 

_ Maybe nothing would be different at all. _

 

_ I wish that everything was different. _

 

“How were the murder stairs?” Connor asks, suddenly curious. “They haven’t, like, disappeared or anything, have they?”

 

“No,” says Evan. He frowns. “Why?”

 

Connor gestures to the room. 

 

All the furniture is gone. 

 

“I feel like we can’t stay here. I think everything is…”

 

“Disappearing,” says Evan. 

* * *

 

“Disappearing,” Evan said, confirming it, because things were vanishing. Furniture and mirrors and roommates and parents and siblings, it seemed. “Things are just… missing.”

“Yeah,” Connor said. 

“Okay so… So here’s what we know,” Evan said because this helped him sometimes, when debating something complicated, when presenting a case in class or trying to make a big legal decision. “We keep dying. We probably died at the same time in our first loops. And things are disappearing.” He chewed his lip for a moment. Connor was watching him, like he was waiting for something. “Maybe… maybe the universe is mysterious and arbitrary and all that, but… maybe the reason we are stuck here and we kept finding each other was… to give us a chance to fix it?”

“A do over?” Connor said skeptically, and, fair, Evan wouldn’t buy that explanation either if he was the one hearing it. Evan worked well under pressure and worked terribly under normal circumstances. He could nail the bar exam in the middle of a mental breakdown, but the breakdown could be caused by something as trivial as what brand of shampoo he should pick up from the store. He knew this sounded like nonsense, but it was the only thing he could come up with considering the circumstances.

“Maybe? Look, I mean…” Evan looked around. “We’re just about the only things left. So. I think we can safely assume this is about us and how we died. And if we… try to recreate that first night, give ourselves a proper do over, intentionally go into it with the idea that we’re going to try not to let each other die… maybe the loops will… stop.”

“Do you really think that? That there’s a fix for this?”   


Evan shrugged. His long held beliefs that he could fix things had been how he ended up here, so this was admittedly a longshot. “I don’t really think anything. But we both keep dying, so I’m not sure it could really hurt. We have literally nothing to lose.” 

Connor looked thoughtful. 

And then his nose began to bleed. 

“Connor?”

He just stared at Evan, his expression going scarily, eerily blank. “I…” 

“Connor!” Evan yelped, reaching out to catch him as he began to collapse. As he did there was an intense, crushing pain in his ribs, in his back, the most common injuries found in jumpers were in the rib cage and vertebrae. “Connor, okay, we’re dying again. Just… just meet me at the liquor store okay? Meet me -”

 

Evan was standing in his bathroom. His mouth tasted like vomit and the sink was running. His phone was buzzing. 

He had to to go and find Connor. 


	20. Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some kind of existential crisis.

Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door. 

 

Connor looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

 

Which is back. Thank fuck. 

 

He doesn’t look any different than he usually does. The multiple deaths aren’t showing on his face, which he supposes is a blessing. 

 

He tries to think back to the last thing he remembers. 

 

_ Connor, okay, we’re dying again. Just… just meet me at the liquor store okay? Meet me - _

 

The liquor store. 

 

The one place they were both at that first night. 

 

The night he got hit by a bus with Alana Beck’s face on it. 

 

The night that Evan…

 

“Nope,” he says to his reflection. “You’re not going to let that happen again.”

 

With that in mind, he washes his hands and leaves the bathroom, pushing past the girl with pink hair who apparently seems to exist again, which is good for her he supposes. She’s still impatient, though, and barely misses slamming the sleeve of Connor’s sweater in the door as she heads into the bathroom. 

 

Clearly, she really needs to pee. 

 

He should probably start to be a little more considerate of other people. 

 

He walks through the crowd of people and some of them wish him happy birthday. He smiles and thanks them and makes his way to the kitchen, where Andi is kneading dough. 

 

“Welcome to the 27 Club!” 

 

Connor strides over to her and pulls her into a hug. 

 

She seems surprised, but hugs him back automatically, the same bone-crushing grip she’s always had. “Happy birthday,” she murmurs into his ear, and it’s really, really good to see that she hasn’t been erased from existence. 

 

“Thanks for the party,” he says as he lets her go. “I actually have to go and do something, but I’ll be back later, okay?” 

 

Andi rolls her eyes. “Let me guess,” she says. “You ordered some ridiculously expensive fancy whisky because you’re a fucking hipster and you want to pick it up.”

 

“Okay, yes,” Connor admits, “but that’s only part of it. There’s someone who needs my help, and I need to find him.”

 

“At least make sure you talk to your sister before you go,” Andi says, a little pleadingly. “I invited her.” 

 

Connor follows Andi’s glance to see Zoe talking to someone he recognizes from the bookstore. “Okay,” he says, because he’s sure that Evan will understand. 

 

“Put in a good word for me,” says Andi teasingly. “Maybe it’s finally time. Maybe tonight’s the night I finally bang your sister.”

 

“Anything’s possible,” says Connor, because he thinks that is technically true. 

 

He heads over to where Zoe’s standing and smiles at her. She looks a little taken aback, but smiles as well. 

 

“Happy birthday,” she says. 

 

“Thank you,” Connor replies. 

 

It’s a little awkward. Like they’re back at square one. 

 

“It’s really good to see you,” Connor continues. “I’m sorry I didn’t invite you myself. I just wasn’t sure if you’d want to come, and I knew it’d be a Tuesday, so… but I’m really glad you’re here.”

 

“It’s good to be here,” Zoe says, and she looks like she means it. She laughs a little. “Honestly, I wasn’t going to come, but I’ve had a kind of weird night and I figured it’d distract me.”

 

“What’s going on?” Connor asks, even though he knows. 

 

“Craig and I broke up.”

 

“I’m sorry,” says Connor, and he means it. “What happened?”

 

Zoe takes a sip of her drink, then sighs. “Motherfucker proposed.”

 

“Ah,” says Connor. 

 

“Yep,” says Zoe curtly, swirling her drink around in the glass. “He even called Dad and asked for permission. Can you fucking imagine? Like, what the fucking hell?”

 

“That’s fucking ridiculous,” Connor agrees. “It’s so archaic, too.” He grins. “I mean, what, did Dad promise him livestock? How many goats does he think you’re worth?”

 

Zoe stares at him for a moment and bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, I had the exact same thought,” she confesses, which Connor obviously knows but isn’t going to admit. 

 

“So this happened tonight?” Connor confirms. 

 

Zoe looks at her phone. “Yeah, it’s, what… ten pm? We were at dinner maybe an hour and a half ago and he popped the question.”

 

“Had you talked about marriage, like, at all?” Connor asks. 

 

Zoe shakes her head. “No. I mean, he’d mentioned it, but it was something along the lines of ‘we should get married one day’ and… I don’t know, I felt weird about it at the time?” She takes a sip of her drink and continues. “The way he said it, the way he talked about it… it was like it was the next logical step to take, rather than something he actually wanted.” 

 

“Mom and Dad are divorced,” Connor points out. “You’re allowed to feel weird about the idea of marriage.”

 

Zoe’s eyes widen a little. “Well… yeah.” She sighs. “They spent so much time trying to hang on for the two of us, especially considering you…” She trails off, looking like she wishes she hadn’t said anything. 

 

“Considering I tried to kill myself in senior year of high school,” Connor says, his tone as careful as he can make it. “Considering you saved my life.”

 

Zoe stares at him for a moment. “Are you okay?” she asks sharply. “It’s just that we don’t… we don’t talk about that.”

 

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently,” Connor admits. “How I never… how we don’t talk about it, and maybe that’s not great, you know?”

 

“Yeah,” says Zoe slowly. She frowns for a moment, then tilts her head like something has occurred to her. “Wait, are you having some kind of existential crisis because you’re 27? And, like, a whole bunch of musicians died at 27?” 

 

Connor bursts out laughing. “Oh my god.” 

 

Zoe starts laughing as well after a moment, and they’re both standing there laughing in Connor’s living room which is thankfully full of both people and furniture, and Connor thinks that this is good, this is healthy, this is maybe the beginning of things actually being okay with Zoe. 

 

“You’re not cool enough to die at 27,” Zoe says after a moment, with a grin. “Face it.”

 

Connor laughs again. “No, I’m not.”

 

Zoe pauses and pulls her phone out of her pocket. She looks at it in slight surprise. “Sabrina Patel just got engaged.”

 

“Huh,” says Connor. “She was in my year at school, wasn’t she?”

 

Zoe’s eyes widen in surprise. Like she wasn’t expecting him to remember that. Which is fair enough.

 

“Yeah,” says Zoe, nodding. “And, like, this guy she’s engaged to? Graham Smith? I don’t know who the fuck he is, because last time I heard she was dating some guy from back home. Can’t remember his name, but he was in your year as well.”

 

“Evan Hansen,” Connor says automatically.

 

Zoe looks at him, still surprised. “Maybe?”

 

“No, it’s definitely him,” Connor assures her. “We, uh, we kind of reconnected recently? He lives nearby, actually. He told me he used to date Sabrina, that she was seeing someone else now.” He nods. “I should go and check on him. He’s in the middle of the bar exam and it’s stressing him out and this is… probably not helping, so… I’ll be back a bit later if you’re still around?”

 

Zoe kind of laughs this disbelieving laugh. “Wait, what? You’re leaving the party?”

 

Connor winces. “Evan’s not really a party guy,” he confesses. “And I’m… I’m kind of worried about him, actually.” 

 

Zoe’s face shifts to an expression of concern. “Do you want me to come with you?” she asks bluntly. 

 

Connor shakes his head. “No, but if I need anything I’ll call you, okay?” 

 

Zoe nods. Pauses, then puts her hand on Connor’s arm. “You’re a good friend for checking on him,” she says quietly. “It’s really good of you.”

 

Connor hesitates for a moment, then pulls his sister toward him in a tentative hug. 

 

Zoe hugs back after a few seconds. 

 

Zoe’s a really good hugger, Connor notes. She’s soft and warm and she smells good and she’s comforting. Hugging Zoe is like getting into a bath that’s the perfect temperature or holding a cup of peppermint tea. 

 

Connor hadn’t realized. 

 

He hopes there will be many more hugs in their future. 

 

“Good luck,” says Zoe, and Connor nods and lets go and heads out the front door of his apartment. 

 

He stands at the top of the stairs and hesitates for a moment. 

 

The front door opens and closes behind him. 

 

“You haven’t been answering my calls.”

 

Connor sighs. “Richard, I don’t have time for this right now.”

 

“We need to talk-”

 

“No,” says Connor firmly, turning around to face him. “You need to go home. To James and Sebastian.” He thinks, then shakes his head. “No, actually, what you need to do is decide what the fuck it is you want. Do you want to fuck everyone in New York City or do you want to respect your wedding vows and try to make a go of your marriage? Because you can’t have both. You and I are done and I think you need to take a cold, hard look at yourself in the mirror and decide what kind of person you want to be. Because the person you are right now? Is human garbage.”

 

With that, Connor starts walking down the stairs, leaving a stunned silent Richard behind.

 

He makes it to the bottom. 

 

Carefully heads out the front door of the apartment building. 

 

Carefully starts his walk to the liquor store. 

 

He pushes open the door to the liquor store, says hello to Andre and heads straight for the rum aisle, where Evan Hansen is bundled up in a warm-looking jacket, a hat and a scarf. 

 

“You made it,” he says, relieved. 

 

Evan doesn’t look at him. 

* * *

Evan took in his reflection as he shut off the sink because he was in his bathroom and the sink was running and his mouth tasted like vomit and his phone was buzzing in his pocket when he realized that he was taking in his reflection.

The mirror was back. 

The mirror had come back. 

And his mom was calling him, he was so fucking relieved that his phone was buzzing. Evan picked up as fast as his fingers would allow and said, “Mom?”

“Hi honey! I’ve been calling you for a couple of hours! How did it go today? You’ve been on my mind all day!”

“It went well,” Evan, half inventing because it had been so long since that first half of the bar that he couldn’t remember how well it actually had gone, if it had gone okay and he just assumed he had bombed it or the other way around. “And I would love to chat for a little bit, but I have to go find my friend.”

“Oh?” She sounded so surprised and it hurt, he could own that, it hurt a bit. 

“My friend Connor. Today is his birthday. We’re…” He wasn’t sure what to say then.  _ We’re trying really hard not to die  _ didn’t quite sound sane. “We’re getting a drink.”

“You have an early morning tomorrow,” His mom said, like he was eleven and begging to stay up late and watch Adult Swim on Cartoon Network. 

“I know,” Evan said. “It’s just one drink. I have to be up early tomorrow. Big day.”

“It is,” His mom agreed. “You know I am so proud of you Evan.”

“I know you are,” He said honestly. And meant it. “And I’m proud of you too. You worked really hard to set a good example when I was growing up and it really… means a lot.”

He heard his mom let out a sort of wet laugh, like maybe she had gotten a little teary eyed. “Oh sweetheart… thank you.”

“You’re a really good mom,” Evan said because he didn’t think he had ever told her. “And I love you so much. I’ll call you after the exam tomorrow, okay? I’m just heading out the door.”

“Okay honey. Be safe and be smart. I love you too. Have a good night.”

He hung up the phone and raced down the stairs, stopping for just a moment when he saw Mr. Abrahamson making his way toward the door. Evan held it open for him with a smile, telling him to have a great night. 

“You take too much Adderall, kid!” Mr. Abrahamson called after Evan who only smiled because everything was how it was supposed to be, everything was going right. He would meet Connor at the liquor store and everything would work out. He was sure of it now. 

A young woman with bright blue hair, walking a large fluffy white dog strode down the other side of the sidewalk and the dog pulled at its leash to come and sniff Evan’s pant leg. 

“Sorry about him. He’s overly friendly,” The woman said.

“It’s all good,” Evan said, stroking the dog’s head. He looked up at the human, hearing himself say, “I’ve never noticed you before. Are you always here?”

She laughed. “I think so.” She gave the dog’s leash a little tug. “Have a good night.”

“You too!”

Evan made it to the liquor store and strode inside. He walked directly to the cashier Andre and asked if he had seen Connor yet. 

“You know Connor?” Andre asked. 

“We went to high school together,” Evan said by way of hand wavy explanation. 

Andre’s grin got wider and wider. “Oh really?” He wiggled his eyebrows a little.

“It’s not like that!” Evan said with a little laugh. “Not really. Well, once, but it was more of a casual thing, really.”

Andre nodded, smiling knowingly. “Alright, Quiet Guy. He’s supposed to come by tonight to pick up his fucking hipster whisky. I’ll shoot him a text okay?”   


“Great. Thank you so much!”

He began to walk the aisles, just sort of idly wandering until he had made a full loop and found himself in front of the display of rums. He considered buying them a celebratory bottle, but he did have the bar tomorrow… 

The bell sounded from above the door, and Connor strode inside. He gave a tight sort of smile to Andre, greeting him, “Hey man, how’s it going?” 

“Slow night,” Andre answered. “Guess it’s too cold for booze or whatever.”

“Never too cold for booze,” Connor said with a smile. 

Andre rolled his eyes at Connor.  “At least you keep me in business.” He chuckled a little. “Oh and your friend is looking for you.”

“What?” Connor said, turning his head fast to look at Evan, his expression strange. 

“Connor, thank god,” Evan said, unable to stop himself from rushing forward, eyes roving all over Connor’s skinny bony body for flesh wounds or injuries. “You’re alive.”

He just looked at Evan, saying nothing. There was no flash of recognition in his eyes. 

“Connor?” Evan tried. 

Connor’s eyes narrowed. 


	21. Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A puzzle he can't quite figure out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the tags and stay safe, friends.

There’s a ringing in Connor’s ears. 

 

He feels like he’s taken a bite into aluminium foil. 

 

“Evan,” he says again, hesitantly. 

 

Something is wrong. 

 

Something is wrong something is wrong. 

 

He puts his hand on Evan’s shoulder and Evan jumps, and it’s such a sudden, terrifyingly sharp movement that Connor pulls back instinctively. 

 

Evan looks at him, expression blank. 

 

He blinks, and he looks confused and pale and so tired, so down-to-the-bone tired and exhausted and there is a rock in Connor’s stomach and a clenching in his chest and…

 

“Hi, hello, do you need something, am I in your way, I’m so sorry?” says Evan in a rush, faster than Connor’s ever heard him, all the words spilling out on top of each other. 

 

“Evan,” he says again. Helplessly. 

 

Evan blinks. Stares at him. “Hello?”

 

“It’s me,” Connor says, a cold feeling travelling through his spine. “It’s Connor.”

 

Evan frowns a little, then just looks confused. “Connor?”

 

“Connor Murphy,” he explains. “From high school. We…”

 

_ We died together.  _

 

_ We had incredible sex on my 27th birthday, many days ago but also today.  _

 

_ We argued and we yelled and we told each other our deepest secrets.  _

 

_ And we died together.  _

 

_ So many times.  _

 

“We were in the same year,” he finishes, as he realizes that the Evan in front of him isn’t the Evan he knows. 

 

Isn’t the Evan he hugged in his apartment as the furniture disappeared. 

 

Isn’t the Evan who reached out to catch him as he fell the last time he died. 

 

This is the Evan from that night. 

 

This is the Evan from that first night. 

 

Connor swallows, hard. 

 

He can taste metal.

 

This is the Evan who will throw himself off a building less than an hour from now.    
  


* * *

 

“Jesus fuck, how did you find me here?” Connor hissed, grabbing Evan by the elbow and towing him back toward the cheap bottles of wine. 

“I… you and I, I mean, I asked you to meet me here?” Evan stammered, mind whirling too fast, why was Connor acting like this, being like this, this wasn’t right, this was wrong wrong wrong.

“What are you talking about?” Connor ground out caustically, dropping Evan’s arm. 

“Last loop, last time we… I asked you to meet me here, last time we died -”

“Jesus Christ, you really are a nut,” Connor said, taking a step back. “I just assumed Richard was exaggerating.”

_ Richard? _

_ Richard?! _

“I don’t follow,” Evan said slowly, fearing suddenly that his old boss had been trash talking him as pillow talk. 

“You’re him right? James?”

“What?” Evan yelped, alarmed because no no no no how could Connor think he was James, think he was Richard’s husband, not realize who Evan was..?

He didn’t realize who Evan was. 

He didn’t know Evan from Adam, from James. 

Fuck, fuck fuck. 

 

* * *

 

Evan is staring at him, like he’s a puzzle he can’t quite figure out, and Connor knows that he needs to do something. 

 

The bell over the door rings and a pile of obviously underage drunk kids come in. 

 

The noise seems to spur Evan into action. He draws in a deep breath and fixes Connor with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

 

“Nice to see you again. I have to-”

 

“Let me walk you home,” Connor says decisively. He loops an arm around Evan’s shoulder and guides him out of the liquor store, past the crowd of drunk kids and a slightly stunned looking Andre. 

 

They walk a couple of blocks before Connor realizes he’s not sure if he’s going the right way. 

 

He releases his grip on Evan’s shoulder, hoping to get him to point them in the right direction, only to realize that Evan is shaking. 

 

Gasping for air and shaking. 

 

He can hear Evan’s breathing get more and more labored and he’s shaking and blinking and going red and Connor has no idea what’s happening so he pulls Evan to the side and sits him down at a bus stop which is the same bus stop he drank expensive whisky at that first night and Evan’s not breathing properly, he’s shaking and he’s wheezing and…

 

He’s having a panic attack. 

 

Evan’s having a panic attack and Connor is Not Equipped to Deal With This.

 

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Hey, it’s okay. Everything’s okay, you’re fine, you’re safe, everything… it’s okay.”

 

He doesn’t think he can say that with any kind of conviction because at this stage, who the fuck knows what’s going on. 

 

He sits next to Evan at the bus stop and grabs his hand and Evan squeezes it tightly but his breathing doesn’t change, it just keeps speeding up and speeding up and Connor’s worried he’s going to black out if he keeps going like this, he can’t be getting enough oxygen and-

 

“Can you… fuck, I need you to breathe, okay? Can you just… okay, I’ll do it, and you can copy or whatever. Breathe in… and out…” 

 

Connor looks at Evan who is struggling, but definitely trying to breathe with him. 

 

“Hey, yeah, that’s good. Breathe in… and out…”

 

Slowly - way too fucking slowly - Evan’s breathing steadies. 

 

And then he’s quiet. 

 

And he drops Connor’s hand and he curls in on himself and Connor doesn’t know what the fuck to do next. 

 

A bus goes past with Alana Beck’s face on it. 

 

“Remember Alana Beck?” Connor says to a silent Evan. “From high school. She’s running for community board.” Evan doesn’t say anything, he just stares at his shoes. “I don’t know what community board is,” Connor confesses. “Any ideas?”

 

Evan doesn’t jump in to explain, even though this time, Connor knows he would have let him. 

 

Connor can hear the guitar. 

 

He looks across the road to see Otis, who’s playing that same sad but hopeful song. It’s tugging on Connor’s heartstrings, the way he remembers tugging on the leg of his dad’s pants when he was a kid, as if to say ‘notice me, notice me, notice me’.

 

Connor notices. 

 

He wonders if Evan feels that tug, too. 

 

All of a sudden, Evan is crossing the street. 

 

Connor’s heart starts beating rapidly, fearing the worst, and he hurries along behind Evan until they’re safely on the other side of the road, standing in front of Otis. 

 

Evan stands and watches Otis closer up for a long moment. 

 

Connor’s got no idea what’s going on in his head. 

 

“You’ll have to be gentle,” Otis sings, and Connor feels like it’s directed at him. “You’ll have to be soft to survive this.”

 

Connor is not gentle or soft. 

 

Connor is razor blade sharp edges. 

 

He is Not Equipped to Deal With This. 

 

He doesn’t know what to do.

 

But if he does nothing, Evan’s going to jump. 

 

He’s going to fucking jump. 

 

And if Evan jumps, Connor doesn’t know what will happen. 

 

He doesn’t know if he’ll start bleeding and choking and die along with Evan, or if he’ll go right back to his bathroom where someone’s knocking on the door, looking at his reflection in the mirror, or if he’ll just… snap out of existence. 

 

If Evan jumps, Connor doesn’t think he’ll be able to face his reflection again. 

 

* * *

 

“Look, I didn’t even know he was married when we started fucking,” Connor said roughly. “But Richard and I are over, and I have nothing to do with him anymore, alright? Please don’t…. Start to like stalk me or whatever.”

He didn’t know who Evan was he didn’t know him he didn’t know that they died together or that he had put some of Evan’s broken parts back together or anything. He didn’t know who he was. This was bad, this was extremely bad this was. 

Dangerous. 

Because, if this was what Evan thought it was, if this was Connor’s first time, then he would die and he would die very soon. 

Evan couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t. “Connor, listen, I’m -”

Connor had walked away, heading for the counter, like Evan didn’t exist, like he was nothing more than an irksome buzzing in the background of his life. “Andre, did it arrive?” He asked irritably. 

“This is pretentious asshole whisky, you do realize that?” Andre said, putting a bottle on the counter.    


“Yeah, well, I’ve been told I’m a pretentious asshole.”    


“Connor,” Evan interrupted, not caring if he was rude or weird because if Connor didn’t talk to him he was going to end up splattered across the windshield of a bus with Alana Beck’s face on it. “I’m not. I’m not James. It’s me… It’s. Evan?”

Connor’s face didn’t change. 

“Evan Hansen?”

Connor’s face didn’t change. 

“From… from high school?”

“Oh,” Connor said, nose wrinkling slightly, like implying that he had gone to high school at all was distasteful.  “Uh. Cool. Nice to see you?” He turned back to Andre. “Look how much do I owe you?”

Andre let him know and Connor put a wad of cash on the counter and headed out the door. Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ this is a nightmare, a fucking nightmare.

“Connor,” Evan tried desperately, but Connor ignored him, heading out the door. The bell rang out and Evan felt like his insides were being crushed, he had failed he had fail…

He couldn’t fucking fail.

 

* * *

 

It takes a while for Evan to start moving again, but this time he’s off like a rocket. Connor’s just glad he’s got long legs because if he didn’t, he doesn’t think he’d be able to catch up with him. It takes a while to fall into step with him but he refuses to let Evan out of his sight. 

 

Evan’s not even acknowledging him. Not really. It’s almost like Connor’s not even there, or Evan can’t see him, and for a horrible, frightening moment, Connor wonders if he’s become invisible or some shit. 

 

“Not to be creepy,” Connor says, because he feels like he should say something, “but you don’t seem like you’re doing so great, so I’m going to make sure you get home safely? I’m not just randomly following you or whatever, I just… I need to be sure you’re okay.”

 

Evan doesn’t reply. 

 

Doesn’t respond, doesn’t react. 

 

He just keeps walking. 

 

And Connor keeps following him, block after block, and these are streets he kind of recognizes but only slightly. They’re not his neighborhood, but they’re not far from it, really.

 

They don’t live that far apart at all. 

 

It’s weird how they don’t live that far apart, both having come all the way from their hometown to a city as big as New York.

 

Soon Evan is letting himself into an apartment building and Connor is still following him and still being ignored, and Evan starts climbing the stairs, and Connor is close behind. 

 

The stairs go up and up and up and Connor hopes that it’s just that Evan lives on the top floor, he hopes that they’re just going up and up and up because Evan needs to get to his apartment, he hopes that they’re going up and up and up because that’s where Evan will be safe, and not because…

 

Connor follows Evan through a door and onto the roof of the building. 

 

Evan stands at the doorway for a moment. 

 

Connor grabs his arm. 

 

“Don’t do this,” he says pleadingly. “Come on. Let’s go. Let’s go to your apartment, we can… make tea or whatever. Don’t do this.”

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” says Evan, and it’s the first thing he’s said in a long time, and Connor doesn’t know what to do. “You can’t be here. You’re… you’re not really here.”

 

Connor’s heart plummets. “I am,” he insists. “I’m really here and I’m not letting you do this.”

 

Evan shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he says quietly. “None of it matters.”


	22. Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the beginning and at the end, all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take note of the tags and keep safe, friends.

“Connor!” Evan said, catching up to him. 

“Can I help you?” Connor said caustically. He had unscrewed the top of his whisky bottle. Connor took a drink. 

“I need… I need to talk to you,” Evan said, feeling almost… out of breath. 

“Why?” Connor said, taking another drink. “Do you have another weird letter for me?”

Evan stopped in his tracks, feeling that blow land harder than he expected. This Connor was… different. More prickly. Rougher around the edges, like dying so many times had helped to smooth him out. Evan took a breath. “I don’t. That letter… it wasn’t for you. It was for me, a therapy assignment. It was supposed to be a-a pep talk, ‘today’s going to be a good day and here’s why…’ but I was… Bad at giving myself pep talks, I guess, I...” He shook his head a little. “I tried to kill myself that summer, before senior year. That’s… that’s how I broke my arm.”

Connor looked horrified, his face twisting into something strange and recognizable. 

“I know you read the letter,” Evan went on, desperate because if he could keep Connor here, right here, talking to him, then maybe he wouldn’t get run over by a bus. “I know… I know you missed a lot of school later that year. And I think. I think you know what that feels like.”

Connor shook his head. “This is weird, man. I haven’t seen you in almost a decade. We didn’t even know each other in school.”

“I know,” Evan said because he knew, he realized this was weird. “I… I didn’t even know you lived here until recently. I… I’m in the middle of taking the bar exam, actually, and I’ve been… Well things have been really fucking shitty. And I just. When I saw you back there I thought maybe you might… get it.”

“Fuck off,” Connor said, laughing a bit nervously. “I’m definitely not the mental health expert you’re looking for.”

“I know that,” Evan said. “I know. But…” He shook his head. “Today’s your birthday. You’re twenty-seven. There’s a big party in your apartment that your roommate threw and your sister is there and so are the guys you know from work and Richard, who thinks he’s in love with you. But you’re out here, by yourself, drinking alone.”

“I don’t know how the fuck you know that but…” Connor frowned. “Whatever man.” He turned away, looking across the street. There was a man playing music under a street lamp, something pretty and mournful, and Connor said to himself, “I think I know that guy.” He stepped off the curb, not looking where he was going, not looking both ways before he crossed the street and Evan reacted on instinct, grabbing his arm hard, yanking him back just a second before a city bus with Alana Beck’s face plastered across the side rushed by at a high speed, fast enough to kill.

Connor turned to look at Evan, his face white and surprised. “Did you just save my life?” 

“Yeah,” Evan said, breathless. “I think I did.”

Connor let out something of a hysterical laugh. “What the fuck?”

“You weren’t watching where you were going,” Evan said by way of explanation, but then he sort of laughed too, and Connor laughed properly, something lighter than before. 

“What are you, my guardian angel?”

“Definitely not,” Evan said, but he couldn’t stop grinning because… Connor was alive. He was looking at Evan like he was from Mars but Evan didn’t care. Connor was here, he was alive, and he had not gotten hit by a bus. 

Connor looked back across the street to where the man was playing music. “I like this song,” he said after a moment. 

“Yeah,” Evan said. “So do I.” They stood there for a long moment, watching as a car or two crossed the mostly deserted street. 

“I should give that guy a dollar or something,” Connor said. “Start twenty-seven off with philanthropy.” 

“Yeah,” Evan said. “Is it alright if I come with you?”

Connor grinned. “To protect me from the dangers of being a pedestrian on the road? I can’t see why not.” 

He and Evan looked both ways before crossing the street. In the warm yellow glow of the streetlights, Evan noticed that it had begun to snow.

It had never done that before. 

 

* * *

 

Evan’s standing on the roof of his apartment building and Connor has to get him down. 

 

He has absolutely no idea how to do this. 

 

“What makes you think I’m not really here?” Connor asks, for lack of anything else to say. Maybe if he can get him talking then he’ll be able to… talk him out of it. Somehow. 

 

Evan just looks at him and laughs hollowly. “Because I have to be imagining this,” he says, and he sounds so resigned that Connor kind of wants to scream. “Because you - you’re someone I haven’t seen in… in nine years, haven’t seen since high school and we weren’t friends and you didn’t know me so why would you… why would you see me in a liquor store and follow me home, I have to be imagining this?”

 

“You imagine people a lot?” Connor has to ask. 

 

“This is a first,” Evan replies dryly. “But I’m not surprised. I’m just… I’m broken. I’m a… I’m a mess of a person and I blew it, I fucked it up, I fucked up the first day of the bar exam and the second day is going to be worse and I - I - I lied to my mom and told her I went out for a drink with my friends but I didn’t because I don’t have friends and my ex got engaged and I… I couldn’t give her what she wanted, I couldn’t be normal for her and she’s moved on which is good, it’s just really good, it’s a good thing that she’s away from all of this, this mess that I am and I can’t - can’t even pick a bottle of rum and now I’m imagining some guy I - I - I pissed off in high school who was the only person to sign my cast when I broke my arm and at least this time when I fall, someone might find me.” Connor can see Evan visibly swallow. “Or what’s left of me.”

 

He starts walking toward the edge of the building. 

 

Connor grabs his arm. Hard. 

 

“I can’t let you do this,” he says, knowing he sounds desperate but not caring. “I just can’t.”

 

“If it’s not tonight, then when?” Evan asks, his voice shaking. “It… it has to happen, because I can’t keep waiting for it. Waiting to crack into pieces, waiting to fall like I always knew I would, and the longer I wait for it the worse it’s going to be so I should just… I - I - I should just do it, you know? Just… this is just delaying the inevitable, it was always going to be like this.” He bites his lip. “I am  _ always _ going to be like this.”

 

Connor is Not Equipped to Deal With This. 

 

He doesn’t know what to do. 

 

He has no idea what to do. 

 

He just holds onto Evan’s arm, terrified, and tries to hold him back. 

 

He and Evan have died together so many times now but this is the first time he’s been this scared. 

 

“Let me help you,” he says. “Let me… just, don’t do this, okay? Don’t…”

 

There is nothing he can say that’s going to make this better. 

 

There is nothing he can say except the truth. 

 

“I know what it’s like. To feel like this. To feel like you can never… like nothing you do matters, like no matter what you do you can’t stop fucking up, and how everyone would be better off without you but I promise you that’s not true, that’s not true, it’s just chemicals in your brain turning against you and you can’t do this, you can’t, because your mom loves you and you’re going to save the fucking planet when you pass the bar and become an environmental lawyer and even if those reasons didn’t exist, you still shouldn’t do this because you… you have no fucking idea how much of a hole you would leave if you did, and that’s… fuck…” 

 

Nothing he is saying is making any sense. 

 

He doesn’t have the words to make this better. 

 

“You’re not alone, okay? You’re not. I can’t promise anything more than that but I can promise that you won’t be alone.” 

 

He is holding onto Evan’s arm so tightly he thinks he might leave a bruise. 

 

Evan is still. 

 

“How can you promise that?” Evan says, his voice shaky. “You’re not real.”

 

Connor loosens his grip on Evan’s arm slightly. “Can you feel my hand on your arm?” he says, shaking it a little. “Can you feel that?”

 

Evan’s quiet for a long moment. Then he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I can. But-”

 

Connor tightens his grip again, and this time he sees Evan wince. “You felt that, didn’t you?” he says urgently. “It’s proof. Proof that I’m real.” 

 

Evan kind of nods. He’s shaking now, just the tiniest tremors, but they’re starting to get bigger, and Connor thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s getting through to him. 

 

Evan opens and shuts his mouth a few times, gulping like a fish on land, like he’s trying to say something, he’s trying to communicate somehow and not able to find the words. Then he shakes his head. “You can’t-”

 

“Even if I am imaginary,” Connor says firmly, “that just means there’s a part of your brain that knows this isn’t the answer. That knows that you’re supposed to… you’re supposed to make it through today. Can you do that? Just make it through today. That’s all I’m asking. If you make it through today today, then tomorrow you can make it through tomorrow, and so on and so on, and all you need to do is just… make it through the day you’re on. That’s all you have to do.”

 

Connor remembers what his sister said to him as she pulled him out of a bathtub and everything went dark around him. 

 

“You have to hold on,” says Connor. “You have to hold on, Evan.”

 

Evan is shaking badly, and Connor feels Evan’s legs start to give way before he’s really ready to catch him. It’s a mess, but eventually the two of them end up sitting on the ground, which is cold and kind of damp, and Evan is shaking and there are tears running down his face and Connor’s starting to see things through a haze and dimly realizes that somewhere along the line, he’s started crying, too. 

 

And all the stress and all the worry and everything they’ve been through on this never-ending day just pours out and there they are, two wrecks on the roof of a building in the middle of the night in the middle of winter. 

 

They sit there for a long time. 

 

It starts to snow. 

 

That hasn’t happened before. 

 

They both look at the sky, then at each other. 

 

“We need to get off the roof,” says Evan matter-of-factly, and Connor lets out a choking laugh. 

 

“So you believe I’m real now?” 

 

Evan lets out a laugh of his own. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But… we need to get off the roof.”

 

They climb to their feet and head toward the door to the stairwell. They take the stairs down carefully, slowly and with purpose, since they’re both a little damp from the snow. 

 

Connor can hear the sound of a guitar playing a song he doesn’t know but recognizes. 

 

He stops. 

 

Looks at Evan. 

 

“Do you hear that?” he asks. 

 

Evan nods. “Yeah. Yeah I do.”

 

They keep walking down the stairs carefully, then head out of the apartment building and out into the city, moving toward the source of the music as the snow falls around them softly. 

 

* * *

 

Evan and Connor crossed to the other side of the road, slowly and carefully, checking for cars. When they reached the other side, they paused, looking up for a moment as big fluffy snowflakes floated slowly down to earth landing quietly, with a noise that wasn’t really a noise. 

“It’s snowing,” Connor said. 

“Yeah.”

“It’s pretty. It kind of… I dunno. That song reminded me of snow, somehow?”

Evan nodded. “It’s sort of… gentle? Or something.” He grinned, a little awkward. “I’m not much of an art guy.”

“I tried to write poetry in college for a while,” Connor said, shrugging. “It’s not for everyone.”

They made their way to the musician, Connor offering Evan the bottle of whisky and Evan took a sip. It didn’t taste like nostalgia for his relationship with Sabrina. Just smooth and warm and nice. In the distance, Evan saw two people walking toward them, their silhouettes somehow familiar.

He blinked and they were gone.

 

* * *

 

It’s quiet as they walk toward the sound of the music. 

 

Toward Otis and his guitar and the song that Connor doesn’t know but recognizes. That he shouldn’t be able to hear from blocks away, but somehow can anyway. 

 

At this point in time, Connor’s given up on being surprised about anything. 

 

Evan’s quiet, and a part of Connor is terrified that he’s going to do something like jump in front of a bus, so he grabs hold of his arm to keep him steady. 

 

As they turn a corner and see Otis with his guitar underneath a street lamp, Connor notices two things, almost at once. 

 

The first is that there are two figures in the shadows, approaching Otis, and there’s something familiar about them. He blinks, and they’re gone. 

 

The second is that somewhere along the line, his grasp on Evan’s arm had slipped and now they’re holding hands. 

 

Something’s different. It’s like everything he remembers about tonight is melting together, and somehow he knows that he’s at the beginning and at the end, all at once. 

 

And somehow, so is Evan. 

 

* * *

 

Evan turned his head and Connor was beside him, their fingers intertwined. Something was different. Connor smiled. “Hey,” Evan said. 

“Hey,” Connor returned easily. 

“You made it,” Evan said, giving Connor’s hand a squeeze. Because he had, he was here, they were there together.

“We both did.”

They stayed there, holding hands and listening to the music, smiling at each other for a while. Evan felt his nose begin to grow cold, his toes too from standing out there in the cold, but he didn’t care. He really didn’t. The snow kept falling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got an epilogue coming your way tomorrow. Thank you so much for sticking with us :)


	23. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

Connor’s never been to this diner before. 

 

Never died in a gas explosion here, never been pushed through the window by the force of a bus with Alana Beck’s face on it. 

 

Honestly, he’s a little nervous. 

 

But it’s Friday morning, and two whole days have passed since the Tuesday night that kept fucking happening, and while he wonders if that means that he’s technically older than 27 years and 3 days, he’s cautiously optimistic that this is it. 

 

That this is all over. 

 

When he walks through the front door of the diner, Evan’s sitting at a booth, reading the menu. He looks… rested. A lot more rested than Connor’s ever seen him. 

 

It makes something clench in his chest because he’s just so fucking grateful. 

 

When Evan sees him, he smiles brightly, and it makes him look years younger. 

 

“You made it!” says Evan as Connor sits down, amusement in his eyes. 

 

“I did!” Connor says with a smile of his own. “I’ve conquered the murder stairs two days in a row now.”

 

“Just two?”

 

Connor feels his face grow hot. “I was kind of too scared to leave the house on Wednesday,” he admits. 

 

Evan nods like he understands. “Me too,” he confesses. “Well, Thursday for me. On Wednesday I had the second part of the bar exam.”

 

“How did it go?” Connor asks, because even though his initial reaction is to say that obviously, Evan must have aced it if he’s done it over and over so many times, he thinks that they’re not quite there yet in terms of being able to joke about it.

 

“Really well,” says Evan with no small measure of relief. “I think I nailed it.”

 

Connor grins. “Really? That’s awesome.”

 

“Of course, I did spend all of Thursday in bed,” Evan confesses, his expression sobering a little. “Which is… not great, I know, but I needed to, you know, recover.”

 

“You’re here now,” Connor says firmly, because he thinks that’s important. It’s important to point out that Evan could have never left his house again and been totally justified in doing so, but that he’s here, at a diner that’s not the same diner they died in together for the second time, but it’s close enough and that’s got to be as weird for Evan as it is for Connor. 

 

The waiter comes over to take their orders. Evan orders coffee and pancakes, and Connor debates ordering scrambled eggs but instead goes for the same as Evan. As the waiter leaves, Evan kind of smirks at him. 

 

“What?” 

 

Evan lets out a laugh. “It’s just… I was going to judge you so hard if you ordered scrambled eggs again.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“Come on,” says Evan with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t tell me you can’t scramble an egg.”

 

“Of course I can scramble an egg,” Connor says, a little defensively. “I like scrambled eggs. I ordered scrambled eggs last time because I  _ like _ them.”

 

“You can make them at home!” Evan exclaims, it and it kind of erupts out of him like he’s been wanting to say it for a very long time. “Why would you buy them at a restaurant? It’s fiscally irresponsible.”

 

Connor just looks at him and cracks up laughing. “Oh my god.” 

 

Evan launches into a rant about how much it costs to buy a dozen eggs compared with how much they charge for scrambled eggs at this diner and there is honest to God math involved and Connor thinks it’s hysterical hearing him get so worked up over eggs. Naturally, he has to point out that labor should be valued and businesses have to make a living and the conversation soon evolves into a discussion about whether the idea of opening a restaurant that only sells scrambled eggs is brilliant or terrible. 

 

“This is New York,” Connor points out. “If there’s any city where a restaurant that only sells scrambled eggs could work, it’s here.”

 

“People are idiots,” Evan says with no small measure of disgust, and Connor cracks up laughing as the waiter brings out their food. 

 

As they dig into their pancakes, Connor notices that there’s a ray of sunshine hitting their booth. He takes a moment to look out the window and appreciate the daylight. 

 

There’s been too much darkness. It’s nice to see the sun. 

 

“I did do something yesterday,” Evan says, his voice deliberately casual as he carefully cuts into his pancakes. 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“I, uh, I made an appointment with a therapist,” Evan admits, nodding a little. “I figured… I think I probably should have done that a long time ago.”

 

“That’s great,” says Connor, and he can feel something in his bones relax, because this is a Big Fucking Deal for Evan and this is Important and it’s going to be a long road, but eventually Evan is going to be okay and that’s something that Connor kind of needs to know right now. “That’s… fuck, that’s really brave of you. That’s awesome.”

* * *

Evan wasn’t exactly sure about brave, but it had been something of a Big Fucking Deal to actually call and make the appointment, so he figured it was best to take the compliment. The person he spoke with was very patient and kind and had scheduled an intake appointment for him the following week. He was trying to stay optimistic and hope for the best without… pushing himself too hard about it. It wasn’t easy. When he called yesterday, it had been a rough day. But he had made it through. Caught up on some sleep. Made it to this diner to have brunch with his new friend.

Friend felt weird to think. Unfamiliar and ill-fitting, though Evan couldn’t precisely pinpoint why. Probably because until this Tuesday (and Tuesday and Tuesday and Tuesday again) he had mostly accepted that he was just the sort of person who didn’t have Friends. 

“So, how did you spend your first few days back in, uh, linear time?” Evan asked, feeling a bit embarrassed and sheepish suddenly. He desperately wanted to shift the attention off of himself. 

“Well, I spent a good chunk of Wednesday sleeping…  But I did make some soup.”

“Soup?” Evan asked. 

“Well there was garlic bread,” Connor said as if that was somehow an explanation. 

Evan just sort of looked at him, confused, for a while. “What?” Connor said through a mouthful of pancakes. 

“Well… soup and garlic bread?”

“Yeah,” Connor said. “Well, there was garlic bread but I choked to death on it one time so it took me a while to trust it. Figured I’d make some soup to go with it.”

“Garlic bread doesn’t go with soup,” Evan said because he had never in his entire life heard of that combination and the idea sort of made him want to laugh. 

“What?” Connor said, and his eyes went big with surprise. “Of course they go together!”

“No!” Evan said and now he was laughing. “That… No! That’s not a thing. I’ve never heard of that before.”

“Free your mind, dude,” Connor said. 

“Oh go eat some goddamn soup,” Evan said back and they were laughing easily like people who had known each other for a while might. It was weird but nice. 

“I have pancakes!” Connor said, dousing his with additional syrup and smirking. Evan shook his head. “I worked yesterday, though,” He said after he finished a bite. 

“Yeah?”

“It was sort of nice to do something… productive.” He stabbed another bit of pancake with this fork. “I’m supposed to get coffee on Sunday with Zoe,” Connor said, nodding. “I kind of half expected her not to answer when I called.”

Evan smiled at him. “I’m really glad you guys are talking.”

“Well, not yet. Not really,” Connor shrugged. “But I think we’ll get there.”

Something in Evan’s heart twisted slightly at the use of such future oriented language. They’d get there, in the future, because they had time now. They finally had the time, the had the option of a future. 

It wasn’t just finding their way out of the maze that their loops formed, Evan thought, or that the spectre of death had stopped hanging over them. Something in him had changed, something small and fragile but important. He thought it might have shifted for Connor too. Evan debated if it was too hokey and sentimental to call it hope, but then decided he wasn’t quite ready to name it anyway. It was just his new Thing that he was doing. It felt better than before, and that mattered. 

“Any plans for your weekend?” Connor asked him. 

“My mom’s getting in later today,” Evan said. “She was going to surprise me, but she kind of blurted it out when we talked Wednesday night? She booked the trip back when I scheduled my exam date.”

“That’s cute.”

Evan wrinkled his nose. “Please don’t call my mom cute.”   


“Face it, man, your mom is adorable. She booked a trip to see you after you took the bar. That’s cute. You can’t deny that.”

Evan couldn’t, so he wouldn’t. 

“How was being back at work? I haven’t had to do that yet.”

Connor nodded. He told Evan about an author they had booked for a small book signing and then in a very nonchalant voice said he was considering talking to Gladys, the owner, about buying the building. 

“Sorry, what?” That was unexpected.

“I know, it’s so cliche, near-death-experience-changed-my-life and whatever, but I’d been thinking about it for a while and… It’s probably stupid.”

“It’s definitely not,” Evan said. 

“I don’t know the first thing about running a business, and besides there would be all sorts of legal shit to work out…”

Evan laughed, and Connor gave him a questioning look. “I’d help you out, obviously. With the legal stuff. I didn’t take the bar for, you know, the hell of it.”   


Connor grinned at him. “So when do you find out if you passed?”

“Not until May.”

“Fuck, that sucks.”

“I know.” Evan shrugged. “I mean… I can’t do anything about it now. I just have to… wait it out.”

“That’s very zen of you?”

“It’s not zen it’s just… resignation.” He shrugged. “I think it went okay, but I just have to wait and see.”

After a while, Evan looked at Connor and made an announcement he had been considering the whole way to this diner where he had never died. “So I know we’ve only technically known each other for a few days, but I think it’s time we take our relationship to the next level.”

Connor’s eyebrows went up considerably, and Evan had to laugh again. He did that a lot around Connor, who acted like everything Evan said was unexpected. 

“I think you should give me your phone number. And I should give you mine.”

Then Connor laughed too, looking a little bit relieved but mostly amused. “Oh my god.”

“I just… I know you don’t like facebook much, considering that your profile picture is at least four years old,” Evan said, rolling his eyes as he thought of the bong photo. Connor laughed again, and Evan thought he really just liked hearing Connor’s laugh, and then Connor slid his phone across the table to Evan. Evan set his on the table in front of Connor. 

“What’s this phone case made out of?” He asked Evan, turning it over in his hand. 

“Recycled plastics.”

“You would.”

Evan smiled.

* * *

 

Connor puts his phone number in Evan’s phone, carefully and deliberately. He thinks about how pointless this would be if they had to live this meeting all over again, if time reset and he was back in his bathroom, staring down his own reflection for the umpteenth time.

 

If he thought they were still trapped, he wouldn’t be doing this.

 

And neither would Evan, he suspects.

 

It’s kind of comforting, in a way. Like a final acknowledgement that time is moving as it should be.

 

“So,” he says, deliberately casual as he slides Evan’s phone back toward him. “Did you do anything to celebrate finally finishing the bar exam?”

 

“Actually, yeah.” Evan hands Connor back his own phone and continues with a smile. “My roommates took me out for dinner.”

 

“Yeah?” 

 

Connor’s sure he’s smiling like an idiot, but he’s just grateful that Evan didn’t spend the night drinking alone.

 

He gets the feeling there’s been a bit too much of that in the past.

 

“Yeah,” Evan says, smiling widely. “I, uh… I haven’t spent much time with them, really. Alex and Mattie are both doctors and they’re so busy and we’ve just kind of missed each other a lot.” Evan nods and continues. “But they both got the night off and we went to this Italian place, and Alex even insisted on taking some food to go, so I could, like, have an excuse not to leave the house the next day and still eat.”

 

“They sound great,” says Connor honestly. “That’s really cool.”

 

“Yeah,” says Evan with a smile and a kind of sigh. “I had a really good time. I don’t really know them super well but they’re great, and we said we’d, you know, try to catch up more often? So… that’s new.”

 

Connor nods. 

 

He thinks there are a lot of things that are new for both of them.

 

“I get dibs in May, though,” Connor says firmly.

 

Evan looks puzzled. “What?”

 

“I’m taking you out for dinner when you pass the bar.”

 

“If I pass the bar,” Evan corrects.

 

Connor grins and looks at Evan pointedly. “When you pass the bar.”

 

They sit there in companionable silence for a moment. Evan looks at Connor, his expression relaxed, a light in his eyes that wasn’t there before. 

 

“Think we’ll make it to May?” Evan asks, in a tone that’s clearly supposed to be joking but has just enough gravity to sit and demand consideration. 

 

“Yeah, I do,” Connor says with a nod. 

 

Evan smiles. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you all for sticking with us through this whole story. We really loved getting to see your thoughts and feelings! We love you lots! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to “Disappear” from Dear Evan Hansen and also “Goodmorning” by Bleachers.


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